The Sacred Art of Self Decoration with Monarch Butterflies

(Butterfly Contemplation)          
     
There comes a time when doing what you want      
without regard for other living things,      
because there’s nothing that exists like you.              
Will show all of your faults, and constant haunt                
with smallest creature Mother Nature brings,               
until you have the sense for what to do.      
     
And who but I of noble tiger breed,      
would take exception being told the rules      
and heavy-handed lessons, to become      
a new example living by the creed:      
I serve a God that watches over fools,      
yet I’m suppose to follow and succumb.      
     
Then also comes a time you set aside,      
for reasons of your own, rethinking life      
because it’s bigger and because it’s small.      
And never mattered, owning to my pride,      
for such the insignificance of strife,      
and never caused a moment’s nit at all.      
     
That’s when it came into my life, the spark.      
To unlock every jungle forest’s path,                
in praise of what I thought I used to be.      
Was only just a holiday, a lark.               
Could not be further from the truth of wrath,      
the shallow waters shown reflected me.      
     
The little one from this, first to approach,      
that flittered in its tiger guise t’ward me,      
and settled on a lily pad nearby.      
I snort “What purpose have you to encroach?”      
Its wings folded closed, no fear could I see.      
Thank you, my Father, I’m a butterfly.      
     
At first I felt the urge to give a ROAR,      
Dismissing scruff without another thought.      
For who’s this upstart that can do no harm;      
“It wastes my time, I’ll not waste anymore.      
I’ll dwell on worthy things the way I ought.”      
But was I not taught better for my charm?      
     
“You are confusing me, I don’t like this.      
Of how you show yourself with marks like mine,      
with colors of a sunset bringing night.”      
If butterflies can smile, I couldn’t miss.      
For if it came the moment and the time,      
the way it looked at me, I felt I might.      
     
The little creature lifted up in air,      
to hover like a blossom on my breath.      
It didn’t have a voice the way I do,      
I would not even know that it was there.      
Like from a visit, taken home by Death.      
The voice is in my head, and gives a clue.      
     
My Father, I’m a child before it’s birth,      
who comes to you as many others will.      
As Monarchs, we won’t live for very long.      
There’s some of us will be born to this earth,      
and to your ‘streak’ a dream of yours fulfilled.      
Before the next full moon we’ll all be gone.      
     
The season of a new moon came and went,      
and gifted me the son I thought I’d lost.      
His ‘ambush’ mother takes him on long walks.      
I know for certain where that voice was sent,      
and where that butterfly and I had crossed.      
I miss the times we had, so few, our talks.      
     
Whenever I’m here now, I contemplate,      
through any season, every day and night.      
Shadows and clouds of Monarch butterflies,      
that give one inspiration to create.      
They sit upon my fur, give voice in flight.      
They call me Father. I’m still not sure why.      
     
     
     
”streak”, and “ambush”= Though the tiger is a solitary animal, where a number of these cats occur together the correct name for the group is a 'streak' or an 'ambush' of tigers. Tiger groups normally only occur in captivity in unnatural social groups. In the wild, a tigress with cubs would also qualify as a streak or an ambush.    
   
Image: “Butterfly Contemplation” by Aaron Blaise