Self Portrait with Butterfly

In my hand—a jar emptied of all

but a segment of dried milkweed stalk

and curled leaves. Two hours earlier,

it had been stained glass,

black and orange, some small god

caught in a church without sanctuary.

When I took the jar from the garage shelf,

where I had forgotten the chrysalis

lesson brought home from the field,

I set it on grass, unscrewed the lid,

and leaped back. Slowly, a live thing

unfolded each wing, clung stunned

to the rim, and then floated away

above the lamentation. Waking from

yet another sleep, I saw then how I would be

astonished over and over, lucky all my days.

My whole life! islands of light

on the dark borders of such wings.