by Ellen E. Taylor
The Gods of Everything are leaving:
Human evil fires their rage!
Missiles, drones, bombs, greed, pride, thieving:
Times to end the Iron Age.
Grabbing thunderbolts to throw
One studies Earth to pick his mark
But something stops him from below:
A project in Sequoia Park!
..where, fixed, with smooth, unerring glove,
Attention rapt, and practiced eye,
A woman feeds the larvae of
The Silver Spotted Butterfly,
Deaf to guns and cries of anguish,
Looming chaos, toxic mist.
These winged spirits must not languish:
Just a handful still exist!
The gods then through their memories grope
And their mythology unlocks:
For lo! This butterfly is Hope
Escaped from poor Pandora’s box!
..the frail but fervent Hope that flies
With all the griefs her box confined:
The fears, which hold us in a vice
And crush the soul of humankind.
Gone now the Olympian glares:
Their countenances beam with pleasure
For a beat, Eureka shares
A godly flash of Hope, a treasure.
May our hands be as unerring
As the woman’s at the Zoo!
For Earth, scourge-stricken, frail, despairing
Silverspot leads counter-coup.