Common Buckeye Butterfly
He arrives in the garden
And alights in the sun
To dry the latest touches
On his portrait in progress,
The diptych on his open wings,
So very long in the painting.
This wayfaring plein-air colorist,
With the warm
Autumn-in-Eden
Splendor of his palette,
And that meant-to-be
Fearful symmetry
Of eyes,
Like a da Vinci study of hands,
Like an embryonic Picasso:
An hypnotic vigilance
Of false eyes
So filled with wonder
Our wonder
They can bring to our own
The truest tear
Of mystification.
How dream-strange!
This startling portrait
Of No-one
By Nobody,
Reflecting our shared
Sensibilities with—
With nothing at all.
Still, he can’t suffer praise,
This irascible Old Master,
Feeling as he does
Each betrayal of perfection,
And any admirer
Alighting nearby
From the merest skipper
To the bulkiest locust
He’s quick to harass
And urge on its way.
—Your body of work, Master:
Can we call it abstract
And Kandinsky a protégé?
You may call it what it is:
The righteous God of All.
He posed for my portfolio
In all His vengeful might so great.
Of all His eyes
I’ve captured eight—
Six more than Michelangelo.
And these eight eyes
I have on view
And those reserved
For watching you.
So if it’s me
You loathe or savor,
Do yourself a giant favor:
Show God
Your very best behavior.
This awful gaze is His, you see.
Now let this Common Buckeye be.