by Peter D. Goodwin
I’m sitting on my deck, the summer to drift by
when she sees a bright red orange sparkle fluttering
in the garden, touching on the buddleia, flying
high into the sky, behind a tree, drifting down again,
touching, tasting the purple flowers, drifting up and
down again to another tempting flower.
Joyfully she follows it, stimulated, greedy, ecstatic,
its gaudy colors shimmering in the afternoon light, its
wings opening closing, teasing—a monarch butterfly.
I realize with a shock that it had been years.
The butterfly flutters from flower to flower, until it drifts
beyond our small patch, reminding me that it—along with
so many creatures—are drifting, flying, fluttering, running,
sniffing, burrowing, crawling, prancing towards extinction.
Once a rootless wanderer, Peter D. Goodwin now resides in Maryland, close to the Chesapeake Bay, writes poetry while unwillingly providing succulent treats for deer, rodents, birds and insects.