Kathleen Kirk

K a t h l e e n  K i r k

I woke in grief and beauty

In the night I had seen my sister

leave our childhood home

and a small tree in a small city garden

hung with monarchs.

Startled, they rose, then settled again,

revealing themselves in flight.

I could waste my waking life

reading dreams, and do, some mornings.

Wings closed—in floral disguise,

pale orange repose.