Danaus plexippus

A flare of tender, fluttering gold

between birch-white arms;

spotted like a deer

and in gentle waves

you pass by those who cannot float.

You quiet me

and all the other watching things,

and if by some divine accident

we were to meet again-

your wings and your orange wisping by like an age-

I'd think you an omen

a message, a sign.

Your wings would be sewn to my soul,

your flying tied to my life with blood-red thread;

a vein.

And every flying thing with spots and feet

would rush me back to the woods where I first beheld you.

Again I would see the trees;

the sun well-acquainted with their boughs.

The soil,

petrichor.

Your form-

the fleeting fire;

you prophet, you nymph.