The monarchs begin their migration.
The souls of the deceased start to visit.
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
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: