Three generations of monarchs
unfurl their wings
right where they emerge,
dazed,
to mate for hours while the world pitches and yaws,
dusk to dawn –
six weeks spent locked
in an off and on fluttering embrace,
drifting in circles of lazy lust
just along overgrown highways
of the driftless area
(Trempeleau, Pepin, Eau Claire)
in endless summer back yards where
the glaciers or fires came through
(Marinette, Peshtigo, Brule)
disheveled females breaking away
to secure tiny pearls of hope
to the flat green ears of milkweed plants
one at a time
until there are hundreds –
like beacons in the fog,
like solstice lanterns,
like constellations
by which tiny winged boats are steered.
But the fourth generation wakes,
and though
no note with directions
has been left on the kitchen table,
no family Bible with halting names of three generations scrawled –
they squint their eyes at the barely perceptible
narrowing angle of the sun,
they tilt their heads to listen
to the slight stuttering
of the milk running through the milkweed,
and untutored,
uncaffeinated,
unpacked,
without thermos or podcast or even a hat,
they set their antennae to the wind,
and remembering the future,
not knowing the past,
fly away
into the
once again
unknown.
What a delicious poem.
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