The Monarch

a poem

The Monarch

Who told you that you couldn’t fail?
That your dust is somehow less diffuse
than Adam’s?

The truth is that we are monarchs,
each of us, the winged kind, not the royal,
and we sip flowers until our bellies ache.

Our reputation among the airborne is
danaus plexippus
Greek for “sleepy transformation.”

We are not angels or birds.

We crawl out of our winter skin, hungry,
wet, and fragile. God knows this.

There are days when we fly from blossom to
blossom, weightless with joy. And then, there
are moments - flashes - when we bump into
tree trunks and smash into windshields.

This, too, is part of living.

Some might only love us for our beauty or wingspan.
Some might appreciate our presence until the day
we stop flying, but with God, things are different.

With God, we are loved from the start.

And in the end, when we are dying and cannot
make it one more mile, we are still of value, having
been shaped and molded in the constant presence
of Promised Love. Yes, even you.

Who told you that you couldn’t fail, oh creature of Light?

That you couldn’t startle or fall from the sky?
You can rest in the dirt, seventy times seven, and
still be precious in the sight of your Creator.

You can stop striving for a little while and He will
hold you in His hands, like your cousin, the sparrow.

You are of more value than the speed of your wings.

Cover image by Bankim Desai.