Here is a little poem I wrote about the curiosity I had over a butterfly which appeared one afternoon in the middle of summer, dead, just outside our screen door. Its wings were spread to show its bright pattern. I don’t know how it died, and it led me to wonder about insects dying in the middle of their lifecycle, like anything else. I tend to think of them living a given amount time and dying the same way batteries do, or cell phones, with a sort of expiration date, perhaps with the change of seasons and in a certain location, dying once their purpose is complete. Anyway, the poem is not exactly about that. It’s more or less my reaction to the sight of this natural thing, showing up suddenly, and still displaying its beauty though deceased.
A falling Monarch butterfly
is mistaken for a maple leaf.
This one died in flight.
It’s wings hemmed
the way fine skin
forms on a bowl
of tomato soup, open
where it lies
on it’s thorax,
Mexico gone to twilight.
It died from eyes
that never saw it flutter,
never saw it float
-those of us on this side
of town
wander blind to insects
dying as martyrs. Of course.
My stomach growls
and my eyes wobble, looking
for a reason to walk outside
in my socks. This is it.
I want to see
this Monarch that died unknown,
wings a quilt
like it died in a frost
on landscaping rocks,
beneath a pattern
bright as fire
that silently burns
on the stones.