Colors on a Butterfly's Wing

It's an untaught art and solo maneuver

Time elapsed auto ejection,

Parachuting us upwards:

Everyone on the planet knows how to die.

The breathing slows down, in opposition

To childbirth's heavy panting,

The lovers ragged gasping.

Like trained sprinters, we know by instinct

When to slow the pulse

Like yogis on the nail bed

When to stop moving, stop reacting

Our irises, black camera shutters opening

On that other vista as, newly born

We unfurl at the other end

Of the silver cord

Unfettered there

No longer dashing our foot

Casting off the old receptacle

We stretch, push and pull ourselves into

Previously exotic dimensions.

Everyone knows instinctively

How to slip out the birth canal

And how to slip the bands of body.

In our genetic makeup lies the DNA

For all the colors on a butterflies wing

And perhaps for the secret of flight

Once we leave the chrysalis behind.