BY REBECCA CLARK
In the butterfly house
it is warm and moist, as if
we've entered the chrysalis.
Children surround me,
thick as Cloudless Sulphur,
their voices a pulsing murmur
within a membrane of Mozart.
Zebra Longwings, Painted Ladies,
Commas, followed by a Question Mark,
a reverie of undulating wings
that flicker from Mountain Balm
to Pearly Everlasting, sipping nectar
with coiled tongues. Their wings
of colored scales form right angles
to filtered rays, absorbing heat
in slow motion flutter, stained glass
reminders of what the world can be
with music, light, and the means to fly.