Thistle goes to seed,
her pale green wings like two sails,
she and I are small.

The fritillary
takes a rest on the snakeroot,
wings of crescent moons.

Off of the main road,
down the slope, along the path,
the Cabbage White feeds.

Red-spotted purple
making due with a torn wing,
tasting goldenrod.

Forgotten photo
of a patterned butterfly
in still meadow grass.

Wings torn like paper,
the temporary wonders
of flight and being.

I don’t need more proof,
I’m not owed anything more
of luck and beauty.

Perched on last year’s leaves
opening and closing
her wings in the sun.

This last habitat—
we expected to flourish,
armature in place.

The teasel comes in
for the Eastern Swallowtail,
soft-bodied, soft-eyed.

A Red Admiral
finds light on the trail with us,
woods full of birdsong.

Lifetime of creatures,
watching for them to come out—
land, call, nest, fly, sing.

We walk, reacquaint,
and accompanying us,
wild beautiful things.

Lighter than paper,
better than calligraphy,
pearl crescent butterfly.