April drizzle

The last sliver of the moon

gleams through a thin spot

in the clouds. I was hoping

to see the arrangement

of Luna, Saturn and Venus

that would form a celestial

smiley face, an emoji sent

from our solar family.

Doesn’t seem promising for

freeing the Painted Lady butterflies

that have emerged from their

chrysalises in the mesh cage

that came with the mail order kit.

They began as small caterpillars

in plastic cups filled with

some kind of medium and food.

The kit also included a shallow dish

with a cotton pad and a packet

of C&H sugar like the ones

on the table at a restaurant.

Just add water for the butterflies

when they emerge.

And they did. With their lovely

black and rusty orange topside wings

and the undersides dappled

in various shades of grey and beige

like rococo marbled endpapers.

A fitting emblem of resurrection

which was the reason to get the kit.

They flap their wings,

making fluttering taps

that attract the rapt attention

of the calico cat who sits

in the closest chair for hours

in full I’m-a-leopard mode.

The day isn’t suitable

for delicate beings to fly.

The splat of rain drops

harvested from the drizzle

falls from the eaves

onto the leaves of the

camellias that crowd

the garden stairs.

A Tesla SUV

hissing like a cobra

zooms past St Patrick’s

up wet King Street

into Eden Lane.

A carillon rings out

the summons to the five o’clock

Evening Mass as Pope Francis

lies in state. Requiem in Pace,

Francis, please indulge

my Latin. Three years

of classes in high school

and I seldom get to use it.

A carillon for the papillon?

That would be fitting.

I look out the window

hoping to see the sun finally

emerge but there is none.

However, I spot one small egg

abandoned on the railing.

Nut hatch, flycatcher,

bushtit, junco or wren?

For another day or two,

I can feed them more sugar

before releasing them to forage

between the Amarylis buds spearing

towards the sky. To suck from

the riot of jasmine along the street

or to sip the Fresia’s sweet nectar.

Perhaps they prefer Cape Marguerites.

Straight up, no salt.