Painted Ladies
By onemorething
- 1638 reads
Wafting maelstroms
on jet streams
in orange and black
descend in drifts
of winged tigers;
each in chemical connection,
in genetic relay
of biological baton passed
unseen, unknown. They dart
in propulsion to motion,
of unstoppable train
of unconsciousness
and a delicacy that risks
the uncertainty of unforeseen
brutalities in its path
as the individual is lost
to the forces of the collective.
This fragility in urgent flight
is a festival of Painted Ladies
who seem a vast innumerable,
but are counted one by one
by their anonymous admirers.
Image from pixabay.
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Comments
It's a brilliant name for a
It's a brilliant name for a butterfly isn't it? Loved this one, thank you onemore
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I like this more and more
I like this more and more each time I read it. I feel like I am stalking your ideas, though, as there was a flock on the buddleia outside. I don't remember seeing so many before. You convey the feeling of their indomitability/fragility really well, and their alien magic
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Hi onemorething,
Hi onemorething,
can't believe I missed this beauty of a poem. As you say the migration of these butterflies has left me stunned at just how many I've seen in our garden. Just walking down the path they seem to be all around, though I have no idea how many.
This is a gorgeous poem and is a great tribute.
Thank you for sharing.
Jenny.
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