Christopher Barnes

As the Monarch Butterflies heave,
tipping black and powder-red wings,

the milkweed anticipates the glop of their eggs
with an overspill of nectar.

There's an inexpressible conjour trick
dreaming its prompt.

The sunrise harmonizes
in elemental fuses.

Because every performance woos a conductor
we await the white-bar baton.

It follows...
there is no mystery in lightning.