I am the reacher,
a Monarch emerging from its outgrown chrysalis
anxiously fluttering, gently falling through a sunlit sky.
Wings spread to dry, wishing my orange and black and spotted white
did not contrast so scabrously against spring’s green grass,
attracting birds of prey.
For they know all too well the ephemeral moment in which the reacher lie.
The Monarch hopes ephemeral metamorphosize forming two eternal souls:
two reachers you and I.
Lost are the confines of my fail-safe chrysalis,
and with the kiss of a hand and a breath of air against my wings a Monarch takes flight.
I am the reacher;
to you I fly.