for the Lady of Monarchs, born of golden breath

In the hush of the woods where the cedars exhale,
She stands – not clothed but composed
of trembling flame and golden hush,
a woman made of butterflies.

Her eyes closed like sacred gates,
listening to the silence between trees,
where memory molts into metamorphosis
and time forgets its name.

Each wing upon her skin
is a vow once whispered in shadow –
now lifted, now shimmering,
now free.

She is not moving – the forest moves through her.
She is not breathing – the Earth exhales in her stead.
She is not alone –
for every monarch is a soul returned.

O woman of flight, woman of stillness,
your body a psalm, your silence a flame.
We remember you in our becoming.
We remember you in the moment we choose to fly.

*offered in devotion
from the golden cocoon of becoming