The imagination and Monarch butterflies...

I have always been fascinated with butterflies and the collective spirit they exude. I see them as metaphors to our imagination or ideas of spontaneity. I think of Gerald Manley Hopkins in his poem "The Windhover", and this is the writing I wish to impart;



The Monarch
(or, the imagination as a butterfly)

):( Is there such a thing
as unabashed
spontaneity?
The monarch, her arched,
almost inebriate, fragile yet
agile wings flutter
with seeming uncertainty...
She draws, climbs&glides
scooping mountainous–‘steady air below’–
without apparent care (nor despair).
Within the moment–She Is–
silent,
in winged contentment.
What possesses this splendor,
this savoir d’etre?
To be only, unspoiled,
a butterfly... ):(