by Phil Specht

Monarchs And Goldenrod

The plant made a summer’s work
to offer nectar as a sip.
Fueling the flight of butterflies,
across the continent, they slip.
A Viking ship so fueled by meade,
crossed north Atlantic seas.
Would the helmsman ‘ve said, sail on, sail on;
if it were not for the bees?
We see a pattern here;
limey sailors and cane rum.
First taxes were on whiskey.
Would monarchs pay the sum?
It doesn’t do for them to fly drunk,
best utilize nectar straight.
Lest too, the flight of butterflies,
requires sobering up first mate.
The magic of a butterfly
wing both a sail and oar.
The sky as heaven’s ocean,
watches as the monarchs soar.

Painted Lady and Monarch