Second Mexico monarch butterfly activist found dead (BBC News, 2/3/20)
Who held the line for the wood, for the trees,
in winter laden with orange
wings, each scale the flame
of a candle against the cold,
blaze of clustering
for warmth, who knew
their value
kept them dear?
Who walked wrong, this forest, who
held back the throng, the long win and
lost. What body
do we grieve? In the midwest, we are milkweed,
in every vacant lot, we are guerrilla
garden, I send eight-year-olds to launch
clay seed bombs against the mob. How many times
I planted my own fingers
in mortar, but never bled. Dirt
beneath my nails, but hands
that are always clean.
Whose hands braced
for the blows and
and fell anyway?
And were felled
anyway. A milkweed bloom is
as round as the sun, as
the earth. Autumn monarchs
circle back, with only the dead
as their guides.
