BOTH ENDS
Both Ends
The monarch arrives
having crossed what it cannot name:
fields, heat, a memory of wind,
carrying direction
without a map.
It rests where it can.
Even here.
On the narrow length
of something made to leave a trace.
Orange wings fold.
Stillness happens.
What traveled so far
chooses balance,
the patience of stopping,
the courage of continuing.
There is a point
where movement meets meaning.
Where the long journey
touches the small mark.
Life asks for this of us:
to wander
and to pause,
to carry what we’ve learned
and to dare to set it down.
Both ends held at once,
the going
and the making,
until something true
can land.
