Inside the Butterfly House
I think of my ancestors

I push through the plastic screen, greeted by a thousand angels, with exquisite patterns and colors — in the shape of fluttering thoughts They rest on flowers, drink the nectar of my youth and sorrow, float past my nose, landing at my feet, too busy to stay I think of all my ancestors who continue to visit in my sleep Those saints and demons of yesteryear, who watches over me in my waking state, with flashes of wisdom — revealing parts of my soul They are angels who rose from the dust, into the translucent present, to guide my future, and remind me I’m not alone in this earthly realm — I will always have family close.
© 2022 Mark Tulin
Here are two more by Mark Tulin
