Migration

                                                                        Feasting on carrot leaves and honeysuckle,
on hollyhock and cabbage,
                                                            darting between tangles of telephone wire,
the color of fire seen through the stained-glass window
of a cathedral,
mythic-green, paradox-blue, some with seven orange spots,
                                                                        like pages ripped from the memoir of a rainbow,
classified by size or sex, born in late September, early June,
                                                                                                butterflies, billions,
in parking lots where mothers pick up their children,
                                                                        in markets where vendors sell cherries,
tumbling, catapulting,
                                    like lilacs blooming without water, like life
without the possibility of life. They remind me
                                                                        of the red dust which settles
on the porches and plazas
                                                of Seville, or the blue