by Ryan Allen

In my spirit

I’m always flying

next to you

and each breath

brings me closer

even if I can’t always see it as it’s happening

but Buckminster Fuller once said

there’s nothing

in a caterpillar that tells you

it’s going to be a butterfly


and I think about this as I remember

the hospital corridor I walked through

to tell you your baby girl has Down syndrome

and I envision Mamaw’s journey

from Louisville to St. Croix

to deliver the telegram announcing Pat’s death

in the POW camp at Cabanatuan

and this somehow matters on our eleventh anniversary

because now we know

grief can be a gift

if we believe in the plan

that brought us together

and that chance

is governed by choice

if we can open our eyes

and have the faith that translates

breaths into blossoms

and transforms a Tower of Babel

into a Rosetta Stone

and reminds us love is a funny math

where one plus one equals one

and two can make three

and five can make us whole

so we stay close enough

for our eyes to become hands

to touch one another

in the space between our breaths

and just be

the butterfly will find itself.

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