Butterflies Carry Our Names
The Elders say
butterflies are the breath of those we have lost,
returning to see if we still remember their songs.
She walks through the dawn light,
the Earth warm beneath her feet,
the mountains watching in stillness.
Around her, golden wings rise
spirits of grandmothers,
sisters,
children yet to be born,
each one brushing her skin
like a prayer whispered in cedar smoke.
She holds one in her palm,
and it tells her without words:
“You are the river we once drank from.
You are the fire we still warm our hands by.”
Tears fall without shame.
She lifts her face to the sky,
and the wind takes them
turning them into rain
that will feed the wildflowers,
so the butterflies will have a home
when they return again.
🎨: Serin Alar
