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Does a Monarch repent when migration begins?
Should the milkweed mourn it’s leaving?
Did the blossom not feed on the tips of her toes
though the bee buzzed on a breeze, and away?

There is a call in us all –
a pull to homeward poles –
and it echoes on crickets’ din.

The leaf that stirs in autumn’s sky
does quicken the blood within.

 

Sunflowers bow
back down to the ground
while bullfrogs sing high to the heavens.

Fat, yellow moons
cling close to horizons
and cast glowing shadow and path.

 

The bark brittles
but it’s green underneath.

 

The skin wrinkles
but it’s me underneath.

 

The heart hardens with lessons learned hard
but it beats –

ba

bum

– underneath.

 

Is it time?
Is it time to fly again?
A sitar song is strong on the wind
and the strings are stroking my wings.

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