I go to where
wild mountain thistle grows,
out alongside country mountain roads—
made up of honeydew dawns,
and held in bright/
blue/ sky-kisses.
 
And there—
I saw a monarch today—
visiting purple thistle blooms,
flirting with Black Swallowtails,
and Viceroys too—
as each one was finding its cue
from Earth’s/ mighty bounty.
 
Feeding without departing
and then in the next moment/
flying off/ from one flower to another.
Drinking in sweet honey nectar—
to make their long fall migrations,
going southward all the way to Mexico.
 
Folding their bright orange and black wings
as if in silent prayer—
and suddenly opening their wings so wide/ they took off/
all at one time/ joining in one unceasing choir of musical glory-songs—
all in sheer anticipation
of reaching their newfound winter homes.