I walk my horse through an open field of clover—
They cover the earth with their swaying heads of white or pink.
My childhood is escaping me.
Like a caterpillar morphing into a butterfly, molting within my skull.
The cocoon of my mind, a silky cocoon that is emerging the real me.
First, I digested myself, grow imaginal pieces, I will need
to mature in the tree over yonder where the clover surrounds the trunk.
I metamorphosis my mind on the old oak tree in the
core until my mind emerges like a monarch butterfly.
A woman viewed as open-portal, as earth and celestial,
and through granules of the soil in her loveliness, we are birthed.
Because this is my beginning flight its there to venture.
Years of vulnerability, thinking I need to be someone, or something else.
That I needed a man, that I halted like clover along the trodden path
waiting to absorb the summer rain after a month of drought,
to be alone, to imagine that vision of death.
To enjoy it in its solace, a whole host of eyes that wait to
stoop what’s theirs from whats becoming brown and deflexed as the corolla fades.
When I was a child— I didn’t know anything. I attempted. I fled.
I was incognito from grief.
Over time I became rain. It fills every limb, eventually reaching my heart, burgeoning out.
I flutter upon the green stem, white or pink blossom, found the most colorful within myself and flinted off.
A thousand wings, flutteringly free. It sounds like freedom.
I am the migrational pattern. I am wings of color.
©Linda J. Wolff - www.wolffpoetry.com