Storm In a Butterfly House

Wings in puddles. There must have been a leak, and in the sky nothing fly’s but a crippled gale, it limps now, yet howls still from the far side of lost town. Wind-drones moan in bare trees sky wreckage litters. Dead Purple Admirals have gone down in rainy heaps. Painted Ladies rest forever. Longwings no longer sail, for the roaming Yellow Swallow Tail It is trails end. Who broke the netting and the roof? What dashed all upon a fluttering flood? Was it the piratical gulls? No, like this emptying daylight they have been flung into hiding. Somewhere in this arboretum new chrysalids sway on twigs, soon there will be wings, but not here in this ruined shelter wear the air drips wetly as if with tears.