In the late fall of many years ago,
            as we watched the dappled
black and orange fluttering slow motion
to dry new wings,
her eyes filled with awe,
then tears.

She thought I meant
forever
when I said this might be
the last one,
meaning the last of the season
so late to migrate.

I held her close
and told her the journey story:

Monarchs, traveling on spirals of wind
for thousands of miles,
reach the wintering grounds
and, like new leaves, fill the trees
and later miraculously return
on glory wings.

She hugged me then,
relieved by my surety,
but I didn't say forever.

When she's older
she will learn how life wraps itself around
impermanence.

See already how she cares,
how she prepares with wonder and caring
for the work of her very being.


© by Carol Amato.
Used here with the author's permission.