Milkweed Poem

Yes, to brag, I've planned my garden well. As you walk around the deck--my Japanese tea house of sorts--butterfly bushes, joe pye weed, ironweed, milkweed, aster, agastache, and other plants seemingly rise into the air like sparks from a campfire. A person's walk disturbs the many bees, moths, and butterflies (and grasshoppers), and truth be told, it is one of the most wonderful sensations to have as these creatures arc up and around your walk. Monarchs themselves whiz by my head within a tongue lashing's space, either unaware or unafraid or both, and I am simply, purely, elated in this place.

Milkweed

While I stood here, in the open, lost in myself,
I must have looked a long time
Down the corn rows, beyond grass,
The small house,
White walls, animals lumbering toward the barn.
I look down now. It is all changed.
Whatever it was I lost, whatever I wept for
Was a wild, gentle thing, the small dark eyes
Loving me in secret.
It is here. At a touch of my hand,
The air fills with delicate creatures
From the other world.

--James Wright