No one has ever told me that I remind them of a butterfly,
bearing up in the wild winds,
migrating through thick tight seasons,
arriving, still, light enough to rest on the underside of a leaf.
And that soft sandhill crane,
that spreads its wings in order to land safely, is no different than me;
but I am hardly ever seen that way.
I feel like a water lily, resting face up in the middle of a sunny day,
stretching gloriously out from the center to the edge of the world, eventually, leaving fossils of myself against the muddied earth;
wondering have I been seen?
That mourning dove,
flying above contradictions,
arising from its wounds,
echoes the songs hidden in the caves of my heart.
And when there are orchids, I see myself,
facing up, darkness filled with light,
choosing to be Frushia, lavender and yellow,
coming up from the middle of the earth where ancestors have come before me;
hoping that someone sees my beauty.
And no, no one has said to me that I remind them of a rose,
a red maple leaf,
or a simple blade of grass standing in precious soil, rich and well.
Oh, how I wish, that when you feel a breeze move quietly across your face, that it would remind you of us.