At the Butterfly Garden, the Bench (San Francisco Bay Don Edwards Wildlife Reserve)
At the back
overlooking
is a bench. I listened to a sparrow
thought this bench to be
perfect for writing poetry.
Sure,
a sign explains how Monarch butterflies
store up the poison from
their food plants: milkweed,
and how this, hopefully,
keeps the predators away
Also, how the California Ringlet,
the most abundant in California,
lays its eggs upon the grasses: Bunchgrass
to be exact;
then the California Tortoiseshell Butterfly—
and so on and so forth—
over here on a purple blossom,
over there on a dark-orange one . . .
They are called Ceanothus or California lilacs.
A gaggle of kids on a field trip on the other side of some trees
move behind me. “This is boring,” one says.
(I’m sure he’d rather be about some iPad playing video games.)
Meanwhile, a bird darts.
Bees are about blossoms.
A lizard scurries then sits motionless perfectly camouflaged.
Six crows rest in a tree a ways off,
then fly over my head, silent.
Honking geese follow,
the cacophony in competition
with the troop of kids,
feet too firmly planted and dragging on the ground.
I’m still looking
for the poetry.
As the songbird returns with song,
through a hole in the trees
I see a kid wearing headphones.
The whole gaggle seems to be heading my way.
O, the poetry!
O, the humanity
to write about such things.
To write about such things,
sit with pen and pontificate
orange and white and yellow
butterflies flitting about
and gone.
This is boring! The phrase
suddenly enunciates in my mind.
And in my mind Mugworts
and Sticky monkey-flowers
labeled and in proper order:
yellow blossoms,
one or two, deepening into crimson.
I open my eyes.
The garden itself!
that is the poetry.
My notepad is empty.
I’ll be back tomorrow.
Apr 7, 2012 by UT2 ©2012
