Metamorphosis

by Cynthia Knorr

There are too many American flags in this town
and not enough milkweed.

The flags seem to multiply—
one on a porch begets flags on other porches.
They climb utility poles, festoon car antennas.
They wave in our faces, they snap,
insisting we don’t know where we are
and need reminding.

What we don’t know is where the milkweed is.
Or even what it looks like.

So let this be a reminder:
It grows on the roadside and in the field.
Its stem is uniform green
with tongue-like leaves that wave in the breeze
to the monarch, whose eggs it welcomes
and larvae it feeds.

For this, milkweed doesn’t ask for praise and doesn’t get any.
What it gets is mowed down, sprayed, and trampled.

There are patriots on every comer in this town
but no monarch butterflies.
Let milkweed rise from the earth with fanfare.
Let flags be covered in butterflies.