the story so far

I have heard when butterflies migrate,
it is their children, several generations later,
endowed with the great train of memories
of those that came before, who died
learned, added their own thread, weaving
a continuous pattern, impossibly complex -
each unaware of the destination, but keen
on the route -  an instinctual purpose
passed down by a hundred hundred lives
to the last butterflies, who arrive.
                                    I think
this might be the origin of déjà vu,
when the mind remembers
when it should not. Like now: I feel
strange, as if I have talked with you,
trusted you, opened my heart a hundred
hundred times before. This may be
our first time here, but I am
as if in migration, not knowing
the destination, but knowing the way.