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