Monarchs on the Way to Work

Day, attending to school in prose—
wings, if ever had, lost to scuffing holes
ground in these shoes
on days begun ex nihilo—
I pass a bush and send
monarchs into flight,

try to follow,
remember
how it was done in one word,
left the angels astonished who saw,
and thinking then, slow, backwards—
from the orange and black wings
fluttering
over and around and away from
the bush, 

oaring on the soft air, implying
invisible physics problems
I cannot solve—
that while one
or few remain,
momentarily to arrive
at the world they open:
Help us recall
what might still become,
this generosity
in this walk
between steps and hoping.