Monarch

I think it started with a storm, a smog, a haze

A lazy, hazy, crazy summer daze

(no. not Summer—Spring)

Rain and cloudy weather; sad songs and heather

Old books, new stories; moved away to escape, old worries

People watching, ice cream shakes; that same old haze, stomach aches

Half Catholic, half Jew; are you there God? I’ve been waiting for you

Typewriters, coffee; cats and poetry.

I’ve been rambling, four, five summers now

Watching, waiting; thinking, dreaming

Dreams are like butterflies; but then why is my head full of nothing but moths?

Dark moths, black moths; moths borne from Narnia and ridden by Smaug.

Those were earlier moths, though, earlier Summers,

I remember the butterflies

At least four Summers ago, when there were only butterflies

And dogs, and mockingbirds; blue skies and simple words.

Sticky hands, clementines; little secrets, sunshine,

Lock down, Covid masks; new fears, old tasks.

I’ve always loved things that fly—

Moths, butterflies; kites, dragons—

Especially monarchs, since I used to like the color orange

Think: sunset, sunrise; Starburst, butterflies.

I like neutrals now (black, gray)

Think: charcoal, heather; ink, weather.

But here’s an interesting thing I learned:

Butterflies migrate, then die; I always knew that, it's never made me cry.

Until now, thanks to the moths, and Mars; I wish I could fly into the stars.

I doubt it; I might be proven wrong

but I’ll be a million miles away by then.

A million miles away…

They always tell me that there’s something wrong with me

That I need to tie a rope around my mind,

And pull it back to the ground.

They never ask what’s in it—

But I’ll tell you:

It’s all just surreptitious dreams, and hopes, and moths

Begging for wings,

To be butterflies,

To fly away,

A million miles away…

Always wondering, wistful, if there’s a place on Earth for me.

And if not…well…

If not, there’s always Mars.