Olga Garcia Echevarria wrote this poem in response to the prompt “To pimp a butterfly.”
To Pimp a Butterfly
In Michoacan, we trekked the steep dusty hills
towards the sun, monarchs danced in the air
like our dead, circling softly above our heads,
making of the sky a festival of swirling bright orange wings.
When we reached the summit, the trees hid beneath
rustling blankets of butterflies. There were millions.
Perhaps it would have been enough to stand very still
and open ourselves up slowly, like giant flowers. The moments,
like the butterflies, were fleeting. Instead, we seized our cameras
eagerly, wanting to trap them forever in our pictures.