It is the pattern
On the large
wings that makes my eyes sway;
Not the
fluttering from blossom to blossom, nor the aerial acrobatics.
It is the fragile
yellow brane
With black
tiger stripes, blue patches, and orange spots.
Sun-flickered
in a swift run just above the earth, the design delivers
Its knockout punch
and leaves me stunned, dragged from flower to flower
By an
alchemist’s golden promise or a sorcerer’s magic cloak
As if I were
the one caught in a butterfly net.
My eyes lock
onto one, but others command the sidelines,
Stand at rest
with wings drawn straight up or spread out trembling,
Displayed and
primed for instant flight among the opening buds
Spur memories
of metamorphic brown caterpillars can grow wings,
Soar upon
spring air, and lay claim to the enchanted symmetry
Of Blake’s "Tiger" even though their wings may have been torn and
Can never be
repaired.
© cmheuer,
2016
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