Meryl Stratford
The Monarchs
after Montale
have been fooled
by a lingering summer—
overstayed
their time in the north.
The milkweed they feed on
has bloomed and wilted.
If they don’t freeze,
they will starve.
Look—how they fly
into the wind,
how they fall, one by one,
into the waves
of the lake.
How can we not see
they are our sisters?
The earth reels
in a man-made fever,
and the fig trees
should be
asleep.