The Butterfly
Whatever stirs the tips of copper and urges buds to swell
comes with the suns expanding heat, a welcome spring induce,
for the urge is now returning from survivors of the winter
to prepare accomplishment in nature’s drive to reproduce.
Proboscis touching nectar in the reds and gold’s and blues,
plus other hues; a jewel that flits and dies on it’s third day,
aware its progeny exists where wattlebird and wrens keen-eyed
scan through the boughs and foliage seeking out their prey.
In the multitude of leaves upon our garden shrubs and trees,
where leaves of chlorophyll become necessities for being,
but contentment with our vibrant garden (which is not a natural home)
turn to sadistic battlegrounds with two parties disagreeing.
For unseen there in this greenery with a natural camouflage
of needed stripes, spots and shapes, for the grazer to survive -
out comes a dust and spray or powder; quite offensive to the land
to obliterate one single insect, but leave nothing there alive.
Lying curled and twisted on the ground; unthinking in this victory,
that death of beauty in it's early stage be destroyed without detection.
Guilty of two months destruction, pruning trees a little ragged
in our world of perfect angles with no time for imperfection.
When beak and claw complete their cull, move on and kill no more,
and genocide is over - thank God - a miss has just let one slip by
to transform and look so harmless in its chrysalises form …
preparing now for metamorphosis - to become a butterfly.
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