Encounter

The monarch glides through yielding air, and lands
on dewy leaves. He plays upon the skin
of petals outspread, as nature commands.
The sweet rose opens, red waiting she's been.
How light his wings caress the bright surface,
how she sways like singing bells well-rung,
it's Life demands of living this service,
he simply obeys and tastes with his tongue.
He traces arcs in the delicate sphere,
she savors light joy which he's sent her,
and if, perhaps, by art, in drawing near...
Oh! Organic, irradiant center!
The rose's nectar proves pleasantries had,
and nature's made nothing we should call bad.