The monarch flutters above the ash
and in its black and orange beauty
exists all day and night.
It flies up to meet the sun,
the gentle maternal hand
of life lived in the light.
Only the scent of milkweed
lures it down to ground for the
paternity of feasting and breeding.
In its flight between earth and sky, I see
my mother’s joy, my father’s sadness
and know I am the son of monarchs.