The Timid Immigrant

To see your inner butterfly
and dream the risk of flight,
feel the light, exquisite air
and let your wings breath life.
When first I flew my homeland,
the heart I sought was mine.
When weary I turned back again,
my heart I came to find.
In foreign ground my mucky roots
still stuck with soil of home.
I was the smell of my home earth
on these two hands I own.

To imagine your internal seed
as it thrives in foreign fields,
release the expectations
of all familiar leafy yields.
Then, when your inner butterfly
brings to rest its giant wings,
you'll see strange and wondrous beauty
in unexpected things.
Once you clean the home soil
from the tread upon your soul
your butterfly turns golden
and the immigrant feels whole.

One day I might fly again
without ground upon my feet,
or, I might leave all migration
to the swallows and the geese.