Sonnet #95

Oh, so contrary, the Gulf Fritillary, marries

and mates on the passionflower vine, but
As soon as the deed, they’re empty, they scurry
Away, no passion to keep beyond the rut
They fall like autumn when mating is done
All those long hours feeding, preparing
All to transform for a week in the sun
Desperately seeking the passion while soaring
The passionvine rambles and settles and sticks
It pays no mind to caterpillars nibbling
Ignores all weather, grows long and thick
These impossible blooms, lumenescent siblings
Of martyrs, give me art not of pupation but the vine
The grumpy, stubborn, sticking art made in entwine
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