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poem submitted to "Your Favorite February 2026 Poem," poetry contest, William Kellii Kekaula, sponsor,
February 28, 2026
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They travel without passports, these delicate immigrants, their wings like stained glass windows in a cathedral of wind. They rise into the August sky, a thousand orange and black wings, paper-thin, trembling with the weight of a journey they do not remember but instinctively cannot refuse. They drift over highways, tiny, winged ghosts in the exhaust, mapping routes older than concrete, older than borders, older than names. Some will faIl, for a highway stitches through their flight path, and the milkweed grows scarce. The rest push on, carrying the sun on their backs, a flickering pulse toward a home they have never seen. What is migration but memory written in the body? What is memory but a debt passed down in veins? the companion memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/dinner_with_the_butterfly_whisperer_13613
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