And of onerous monarchs with tufted wing,
Amber over chestnut, iced oak, winter’s solace they sing.
Born to languish where their starry sons fly
Born in the very brooks where they are destined to die.
Some explore mesas in sweet mescal mist
Others dance through muddy waters, Mississippi licks.
But past these southland dwellings the monarchs always fly,
To home, to return, to die
To lie within golden tufts of scotch and rye.
And of these flights towards death: we too must make our way
Sculpt the cold indigo sprays of our despair
Into wings, and neither broadway nor primrose
Can hold our beings at bay.
Give to your life its own tufted flights,
And we can bop ditty to Buddy (lay a trey on us, ole money)
Finding time to dance among those amber-ivoor blooms,
For it has always been your place
To lie, to rest, to taste
To languor under spring’s milkweed-honey moons