Coronal

         Arched, a tawny
Fritillary pivots on petals, 
butterfly wings closed as she 

turns. I understand 
shutting tight: nothing revealed 
except the received, 

silence handed down,
even absence. Coiled tight,
the proboscis unfurls

to suck deep of pistils, 
a wild bittersweet within a center 
becoming harder to locate. 

More like a stutter as she hops 
to another bloom, as if never
and always merge but will 

not hold. Can not last. Morphosis
shimmering like the Queen’s 
diadem, just out of reach.