I am going to see the Butterfly Queen
who sits in the high limbs
of the oldest hardwood,
the one that creaks and whispers
when it thinks I’m not looking.
She’s dressed in folds of blue
with a cascading symphony
of golden hues sewn in.
Her hair, oak-brown, is tightly bound
with the dreams of her children,
who gather softly around
the hems of her skirt. They
flit about, landing, whispering,
waiting for her kiss, her feathery
breath falling timeless on their backs,
her fingers gracing the intricacies
of their wings.

I am going to see the Butterfly Queen
who glides down a spiraling mist
to settle among the colors of Swallowtails,
Blues and Azures, all folding as if to pray.
She touches the wings of those
that are broken, whispers and tears
lift their velvets and silvery sheers.

 
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