Butterfly eggs

In yesterday*s Chicago Tribune I read about a woman who searches parks for monarch butterfly eggs, collects leaves every day to feed the caterpillars, waits until they emerge from their cocoons.  Sometimes it seems we only get to witness small pieces of our daughter growing up.  She*s more of a swallowtail, I think,

Sometimes we see her

Grow up.

Most often she does it

Out of sight

Only to emerge again

A butterfly,

A swallowtail, I think,

Particularly beautiful

With the loopy bit

On the bottom of its wings.

She emerges and dries in the sun,

The yellow and black wing trailers

Make her

Distinctive and identifiable

And yet definitely formed

in secret.

I read about the woman

Who collects butterfly eggs

And brings them home.

She waits for them to hatch,

Feeds the caterpillars from leaves

She collects every day.

She also collects first edition books,

Reads the Torah

While she waits for the butterflies

To emerge from their spun cocoons.

The boy butterflies want to leave

As soon as they emerge.

Apparently the girl butterflies hang around

Awhile

Nestle in her hair

Until she takes them for a walk.

Gently

She watches them go.