I am monarch by decree
To which my family all agree
Whose praise the heartland heartily chants
And so do my daughter and my sycophants
My daughter and my sycophants
(With apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan)
Look, Peggy enthused, at that huge monarch butterfly.
She saw it flutter down, through the window,
and settle on the end of that branch.
Five minutes later it still hadn’t moved.
Perhaps, just perhaps it was a golden bough unleaving,
from the Gerald Manley Hopkins poem.
That’s the way it is with monarchs.
They can make us see what isn’t there.
Sometimes it’s not the butterfly that flutters by.
We can’t wish its existence like monarchs do
from inside their wooly caterpillar chrysalis.
Donald is having another tantrum flapping
his monarchial orange fuzzy-wuzzy
as if he were a maga lepidoptera
buoyant and flamboyant
having astonished his mother-worm
with leaves masquerading as wings.