There is something so Audrey Hepburn about a monarch butterfly.
Maybe it's the infamous sight of one prancing free
In sync with beauty
Or maybe its the black colored scent glands
Featured on each fragile wing,
delicate like a newly spun web
Or is it the soaring limit of eleven thousand feet of freedom.
The elite ability of the longest migration
Or the antennas longing for a Zinnias nectar or need for milkweed
Or sailing the wind one hundred twenty flaps per minute
A beauty among skies
After thirty days, an egg, larvae, a pupa, and eventually an adult
Gaining more than three thousand times its original weight,
It gains pure-irrational beauty
Oh monarch, spotted in glory, painted in praise, who can compare?
Outlined in black, dipped in orange, who can compete with such glory?