Something rings sympathetic strings
as flocks of mating monarchs fly
south on iridescent wings
to settle on our columbine
We're tempted both my wife and I
to warn them of the boy who springs
triumphantly with net held high:
But one can overdo these things
His captives seem to us like pages
torn from a picture book that's filled
with fading formal images:
to sigh for kings and queens in cages
that we ourselves have helped to build
is only natural as one ages