“Though thrilled to disclose them tasting
with feet and old enough to have flown 
Inside the ears of T. rex, our true purpose 
is farming this Kafka-like metamorphosis 

where the chrysalis of tired, uninspired faces 
butterflies into wonder’s winged smiles 
as kids gawk at these daytime northern lights 
and poetize  “flying flowers” or “confetti  of insects.”

Yes, soon, then, there’s this promising sowing 
of the hard to grow marvel as visitors now coax 
butterflies to alight arms pocked with drops 
of cool aid– or they linger in the Emerging Room 

gaping at swallowtails hanging upside down 
for the two hours needed to fill wilted wings 
with the blood and oxygen required to fly ….
which is what we’re doing now espying butterflies 

in fluttering, admiring eyes so like my wife’s
when musing on wonder’s like luminous wings 
not so monarch-endangered if another classroom 
of kids pleaded for a butterfly garden kit.

Linger, now, with us as we linger in harvesting  
the day’s sweet, ripe, wonder words attesting 
to us farming hearts over hectors, souls over soil,  
via adoration’s miracle grow that even inspires 

the  night-shift dad—dragged to chaperone—
to skip with his girl through the field of asters 
after witnessing each pupa’s “color plasticity”  
mirroring any hue of flora it happens upon; 

and we pause to see the world possibly redeemed 
by restoring  one fallow body at a time to bloom 
with fascination for the monarch evolving to fatten
on milkweed that’s poisonous  to her predators; 

and we feel  the field trip is as heart healthy 
as any organic collard as science confirms 
how adoration release endorphins making
our organs more vibrant and synchronized 

and so like the two of us we think, during 
our evening mediation where, pondering 
more proof of restoring some of the earth’s
precious, eroded “top-soul” of  wonder,  

we feel as beautiful  as any pair of painted ladies  
feasting atop our stores of Florida, cut oranges.”