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 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.
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 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.
A delightful and significant memory. The style is almost (but not really) rhythmical prose, but the thought and the reflection on it are pure poetry. The golden imprint on your hands must have been pure magic to you.