This summer we planted a butterfly garden, lining the patio with bright signal fires to attract soft, shy visitors. Verbena and turk’s cap, lantana and sage, zinnias, marigold, and the king of them all: milkweed, to nourish monarch babies at its leafy breast. Orange flowers like tiny crowns proclaim its position, sprawling spindly arms reaching out to embrace passers by. An egg haven, a quiet nursery next to the rose bush and citronella, a place for gossamer mothers and fathers to rest and refuel on their relentless journey. Every year we join them, summer road warriors drunk on the milk of exploration and adventure, perching here and there in forests, deserts, along the shores of lakes and rivers, in the bosom of canyons, wearily drawn like moths to motel lights when the chrysalis of our tent becomes too much. We break free and fly on incubated propulsion, following the internal compass that always ticks off just the right amount of time, always tells us just when is the right moment to wing our way back home.
Another prose poem from my July Camp NaNoWriMo endeavor. Thank you for reading!