Robbin Mayem


beneath mother’s gaze
a toddler poised,
in the meadow’s
epicenter, lost in
the sun-lit bliss
of waist-high grass
and enraptured by
the sweet aromas
of clover and timothy,
by the vast unfolding
of blossoms—
a bright vermilion
with spots of white,
fluttering in
the rhythmic wind—
all there to be
touched and gathered
as a tiny hand
reaches out, a conjurer’s
wave—a rustle
a squeal of marvel
as the blossoms
rise and collect
high above

a stirring cloud of
monarch butterflies

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