I’d rather be picking seed from fluff
in the bag that wintered on my porch
in hopes that I could help enough

and guide their way with this torch
that some, without heed, plow under
and others kill by chemical scorch.

Does it fill you with a kind of wonder,
insects taking to unseen, inborn roads,
days and miles, wings not torn asunder?

The call to lay eggs guides and goads
to find those plants whose toxic sap
feeds each caterpillar till it explodes,

a new skin becomes a cloak, a wrap,
as it grows new legs and wings,
emerges to fill a terrible gap,

the decline that our destruction brings
because we care for other stuff
and do not want a world that sings
in notes both delicate and tough.