Tell me your stories.
Your legends, your myths.
The songlines that lead your young across miles of wild ocean,
waves crashing into shore below.
Do you tell them in words?
Describe the mountains and valleys, the quiet forests so far away?
Or are ancient maps written in dreams,
wrapped around their sleeping bodies in soft, green cocoons?
Is it hard to leave?
The broad leaved milkweed with its’ bitter latex sap?
Or do your tiny hearts beat hard, with excitement,
at fate’s strong hand guiding you
over land and sea?
You are brave
for one so small.
on tissue paper wings.
My heart breaks when I think of you reaching the dark forests,
and the golden fields,
so ready for rest, for celebration.
Only to find acres clear-cut,
dry dust where
shady trees grew before, dying plants
where they used to stand tall and green.
Do you fall to your knees?
Wrap brightly colored wings around the small bodies of the ones you love and sob?
Do you pray to any Gods who will listen for mercy, for healing,
Because I do.
In the middle of writing this, had to wrap my arms around my small sleeping son, and sweet husband, and sob.
And the worst part. In the words of my dear friend. “I am complicit.”
And I am,
under the electric light,
searching for connection in a glowing computer screen,
insane with grief.
I can’t stand what’s happening on this planet right now.
I can’t stand being a part of it, participating in the methodical dismantling of
our beautiful world.
Dreading the day when my son learns of the Monarchs,
through our own myths and legends.
I am so, so sorry everyone.
It’s not supposed to be this way.
Thank you for listening.