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.