Migrate

Photo by Timothy Abraham on Unsplash

Who am I to tell him  
he can't cross the ocean 
on his own wing, 
that his million wingbeats 
aren't his to give to the wind?

Am I so certain that the flowers 
here will be too few 
for his thirsty tongue? 
That the trees will pull back their 
branches from his tired body?

What if the flowers have all 
dried and the trees 
burned in his home? 
Or what if he just can't see 
the borders I’ve made in my mind?

And who am I to stop the warm 
body of this Mother from holding 
him close when he reaches 
the shore at the edge of my 
belief in belonging?

_Written April 19 2026 in response to a prompt from Laura Catanzano