Ioanna Warwick

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Thousands of Butterflies

I stand in the amber
passage of brief wings.
Thousands flutter so close,
almost brush my face.
Their shadows flicker across
pale shadows of clouds.

They are flying toward
the sharp notch of the pass---
past the lichen-gilded
cliffs, the waterfall wearing
a thin tiara of mist.

Scraps of sunlight tossed
by air drafts, for miles
they unfold their procession.
A few lose their bearing
and drop to the ground;
thousands fly on.

All those souls
in their long migration---
sensing only the direction,
not knowing the place
they are going to.

Buffeted by gusts
of cold wind in the canyons,
butterfly against rock---

we pursue something more

ruthless than happiness.

Copyright (C) Ioanna Warwick, 2006. All rights reserved.