Heart of the Monarch

Lesser fritillaries or crescents might

have lost their tribe in the Piedmont,

or some wayward zone, sailing northward like

tiny spinnakers over upper-austral regions

of deciduous hickory and gum,

but near where flat coastal plains

verge westward across forests, overcome

by spring, the African-winged, black-veined

monarchs revive across the temperate

Mayish sky. Assembling each late noon

for sleep, the young bachelor males alight

in unison, the flash and dazzle of venation

klatched near a pond’s muddy crevasse.

This puddle club of monarchs, weary and peaceful,

dozes—unappetizing to the thrasher,

the rough-winged swallow, or the needle-

billed hummingbird—abdomens chock-full

of milkweed, foul-tasting to hungry fowl.

So this sleeping assembly, fearless, roosts till

morning, when the herd ascends, their spiracles

yawning as they make their way, steadfast.

Out of vivariums, out of seclusion

from under stones and turfy grass, the half-

grown caterpillar emerges; out of unsewn

mats of silk; out of winter lethargy,

the hibernating chrysalis unruffles

its royal self, its larval life a wee

memory; out of the land of Nod, adults

begin their lazy, deliberate flights

(the conspicuous monarchs, mind you, not

the miniature, mimicking viceroy!)—

these flower-eating kings, farsighted,

as they make their way with antennae

precision across the psalm of America

toward Milwaukee and Manitoba.

There’s nothing to fear. They’re on their way.