We were young, still in our cocoons when we first met.

Flora morphed into a beautiful butterfly, sooner than me.

Her wings—the colors of fire,

lit the sky.

Her flutter

stirred many, to reach and pocket her.

But free minded, she held her own, unwilling to be caught.

With a grand vision to travel 3,000 miles north

and return to the breeding and feeding ground,

her battles were many.

Flapping against the ticking clock, she knew she would not make it in her lifetime.

Yet her body—of orange, red and yellow, continued to light a fire within her.

She bargained with the omniscient One to fill the ears of her heirs, with information

so they may complete the journey.

She also ensured Milkweed would wait for their arrival—even if it took

two, three, or four generations.

I recall our conversations while in the cocoon.

Her wings undeveloped, and flight undetermined, her vision remained clear as glass.

Knowing all along she’d have nothing much to give,

She blessed her children with a special strength to remain connected with the One.