Last Days for the Matriarch Butterfly

clings to the trunk with a zillion other flubbers
not ready to go on, not ready to ease up the flex-
ing motion that had always served so well,
still thinking ahead to moisture, to sun, to the tilt of the planet,
not thinking deeply, as that distracts from the flubflub
flub of the groove of airspace allowed by neighbors
not missing the sweetness of past field flowers
or the joy of contrast in the wood, or by the sand,
just steady on the bark, under the branch pointing South
giving lift to the next tigered patch of citizens,
giving all that can be spared,
with just a little marmalade pot for tomorrow

Why care

When there is nothing to care about?
No trees to sit under
no paths to walk.

Why care at all?
With no happy faces
or friendly eyes
and threats and stares along every corner.

Why pick up trash around the neighborhood or dress in bright colors,
when the world around you just shivers at the sight?

I ask myself these questions. The whys and hows of the neighborhood.

Living in a place where few care,
and we all watch it rot little by little