I push through the plastic screen
of the Butterfly House
and greeted by thousands
of migrating winged creatures
in exquisite patterns and designs,
skirting the soft and fragrant petals
of echinacea and marigolds.
They flutter from their unhappy past
where they were held in death camps—
butterflies of all colors and ethnicities,
in what seems like a frantic hurry,
they swirl away from a distant memory.
They came from the chambers
of cruel indignities,
only to rise from a coughing smokestack,
hardship transforming into prosperity,
butterflies scaling the hopeful sky,
free of pain, no more tears.