When you scratch the leaf
with your barbed legs,
what scent wafts to your antennae,
“Yes, this is milkweed”?

When you are a fat caterpillar,
pausing between bites,
what wired message says
“You can stop eating now”?

When you hang from tough threads,
form a “J” for transition,
what inner miracle-magic unzips
your folds to chrysalis?

When you morph within gold-gilded
case of palest green,
what turns your innards to mush,
rearranges accordion crawl to bright wings?

When you emerge in crumpled black and orange,
inflate your wings and test them—open, close,
what interior song inspires your flutter to tree tops,
your flight beyond gaily-blooming prairie?

And now, in autumn, as you fly the distance to Mexico,
do you regret your departure from familiar here
to distant mountains—back to a place you’ve never been,
a place that calls you home in faintest memory?

Lucy Tyrrell sums her interests as nature, adventure (mushing and canoeing), and creativity (writing, sketching, photography, quilting). After 16 years in Alaska, she traded a big mountain (Denali) for a big lake (Superior) when she moved to Bayfield, Wisconsin. She co-edits Ariel Anthology and is Bayfield Poet Laureate for 2020-2021.