A Poem for the Butterfly Moon and All Its Newness, or, Knewness
Even in tatters, majestic she flies. With dusted wings shredded, imbalanced, and tested - she regains her power with nectar from flower. Authentically her, so detailed and pure. It's magic to all, how does she not fall?
🦋 "It is not in my nature," she says with her presence. "For we all are equipped
to fly, though ripped, and to continue our mission with no need for permission."
This butterfly tells us it's all for a reason. "After all," she says, "that's the point of the season. To bravely defy all logical reason as to why we should fail, and never set sail, though we ache for the wild (the fierce kind, not mild). It is time, my child. It is time, my child."
And with that she flew past all the people and plants, leaving me breathless, undeniably restless. Her wings like a mirror, her voice like a song, telling me something I knew all along.