THE MORNING OF THE RED ADMIRALS

for D & L

We saw them first

last evening—two

spiralling up

a column of late

sunlight, then,

tilting away

from each other

in a floating stagger

through the early

summer leaves—

a jittery dripping,

dropping, rising—

one coming

to rest a moment

on the still warm

roof of our fat

pagoda lantern,

the other on weathered

deck rail;

the tips of its

long antennae

beaded and bright;

wings black,

white dot

and blue dot,

and barred aslant

with orange red,

laid flat,

then clicking shut

to dull grey sail,

then opening again.

Now it’s morning;

you’ve gone to work.

The air gleams,

dry and clear,

almost Greek,

and a half dozen

admirals sip

from the lilac blossoms,

still signalling

their unsayable

story. One

lights on my shoulder

as I hang the day’s

laundry on the line,

shirts and drawers,

dull socks,

our flapping colors

answering his.

He’s weightless,

this migrant—

a small, wild

scrap of grace—

and I’m his resting

post on the way

to whatever far

edge of creation

breathes at the tips

of his wings.