Late summer when I was 10
And monarchs were moving through Texas
On their way to mountain homes
I found a stranded member of that mob
Entering the supermarket on my shirt.
Soon heading straight for the fruit aisles,
Drawn by the aroma of ripe apples and cantaloupes.
It landed on a pile of pears.
I closed my hand around it like a cup,
I could feel the flutter of wings
That tickled my fingers and palms
And its desperate need for freedom.
Once outside I open my hands
And lifted it back to the brisk breeze
And the powder blue sky
That the sun had ignited to a blue flame.
It left behind on my hands
The imprint of wings in gold dust.
The rest of the day I refused
To wash my hands
And tried to find
A happy thought to fly with.
Discovering Butterfly Dust Is Not Fairy Dust
