Carla Campbell: The Migrator

Fall '13 TOC

Black, gold, bronze,
Shimmers against the blue sky
Like stained glass windows.

They migrate within
The trees of the Michoacán;
Creating a canopy.

Some arrive tattered and a little torn.
They have been, carried
By wind, led by instinct.

The fluttering wings of the Monarch
Create the sound of rain,
Becomes a sanctuary
for the migrant worker,

Suited in tattered Levis,
Covered in dirt and dust.
Migrating to a place
Filled with promise

His raw hide boots are removed
from his callous feet;
giving them a chance to breathe
and a moment to rest from his long journey.

Folding his arms across his chest
he rests his head upon the blue, gray boulder.
His dirty hands and dirty finger nails
reveal his occupation.

Trembling,
He awakens from his sleep.
He opens his eyes to a glistening sun
that peeks through the trees
and onto the forest floor.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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