FLYING WITH BUTTERFLIES

In the arms of the oyamels

the butterflies

dream,

clinging to thin green needles of hope.

They are cold and hungry

winter refuges

clustered close,

waiting and waiting.

When the clouds break,

a sun kiss

brushes the butterflies

with a tender nudge

and their wings open

in a slow sleepy yawn.

The day lengthens

as the sun drapes

its warm buttery blanket

over the forest,

while the butterflies stretch

languidly,

slowly stirring.

Then, as of one mind,

the butterflies shudder in delight

and surrendering to bliss

free fall

from the fingers of the oyamels

in an orange cascade of prayer;

a whirling dervish dance

of millions

celebrating the simple -

blue sky

a warm sun

gentle breezes

a new day.

And we, watching,

are swept up by joy

to join in the dance

our spirits soaring;

happy to be here,

now,

flying with butterflies.

- Mary Redus