May we all be Monarch butterflies,

our orange wings lifting us from our cocoons,

fluttering in the morning breeze from leaf to leaf,

soaring when the sun is high,

sweeping through sunbeams late afternoons,

devouring what nourishes us,

the milkweed leaves behind us now

until it’s time to find that distant place

where we begin and end.

May your wings sing in harmony with your heartbeats--

your voice like no others, your melody sweet,

your aria rising from your spirit singing,

“I am alive here in this garden now though

not forever.”

May you know when it’s time

to make your journey homeward--

find the currents in the air

to take you high above the forests,

the sunlight guiding you,

the days passing far below

faster than all the years you’ve traveled.

May whatever suffering you have known

be distant hills.

May you arrive where you began

in darkness long ago beyond all memory

until it’s time to know the light again,

time to fly your orange wings

to where the milkweed grows.