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Monarch
The aria slid past sheers, filled the iron room with feather-soft notes. The music took her face from the pillow, mesmerized her sorrow. Her worries squirmed in her underbelly like half-butterflies in search of detail, identity, light. The sparrow-song set the tempo, cocooned the fear of what-to-do wonder. She peeled back the quilt, gave milkweed skin to sun-silk heat. Her sorrow flew to the throat of the bird. It did not swallow, instead, it sang a new song, and created a monarch. ©2000 Peggy Putnam Owen |