The monarchs begin their migration.

The souls of the deceased start to visit.

Temperance comes

with discipline, conviction

to not evade the truth or promises.


The last time I looked into your eyes

you were dying, trusting my love for you

and all the love that shielded around

your frail and fading body.

One year and I still miss you in my gut,

an emptiness that cannot be quelled.

This is the bird song, the emphasis

of individual brightness. The gift of you

and others too of gentle and lost natures.


The monarchs come to my back garden.

I greet them. I know each one –

their wing patterns, their flight patterns.

One day I will be a monarch,

a whiff of my soul, darting

from flower to flower, offering

a mild comfort to soothe

the pangs of vanished intimacies.



Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “New Mystics” July 2022

New Mystics July 2022 AllisonGrayhurst-9Poems



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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