Colors On A Butterfly's Wing

It's an untaught art and solo maneuver Time elapsed auto ejection, Parachuting us upwards: Everyone on the planet knows how to die. The breathing slows down, in opposition To childbirth's heavy panting, The lovers ragged gasping. Like trained sprinters, we know by instinct When to slow the pulse Like yogis on the nail bed When to stop moving, stop reacting Our irises, black camera shutters opening On that other vista as, newly born We unfurl at the other end Of the silver cord Unfettered there No longer dashing our foot Casting off the old receptacle We stretch, push and pull ourselves into Previously exotic dimensions. Everyone knows instinctively How to slip out the birth canal And how to slip the bands of body. In our genetic makeup lies the DNA For all the colors on a butterflies wing And perhaps for the secret of flight Once we leave the chrysalis behind.