. . . at least, it makes me happy.
I walked out in the front yard to distribute more ladybugs on my aphid-infested roses. As I walked by my daisies, I was surrounded by a flock, a swarm, a gaggle–what do you call those things?–of painted lady butterflies. The superbloom has brought a lot of them up from Mexico in migration, but we thought we had seen the biggest wave, but, not! They are everywhere, and given they like the lavender, daisies, roses, and (dead) lilacs in my yard, we have a downright sanctuary for them! It is like walking in a fairyland.
Lilacs are blooming, wind is blowing, I am sneezing, and the swallowtails are back!
These little guys are no bigger than the fingernail on my pinkie. You can barely see them without a zoom lens, yet so delicately and intricately made.
I love when my lilacs are blooming–delicious!
And I love the visitors they bring–beautiful!
In every stained glass butterfly wing and every crafted hummingbird tongue,
in chiffon layers of petal upon petal, anther and stamen, centered strength,
I see your hand,
your art, and I wonder
at those who could praise science and the randomness of process for these marvels.
There is a hunger for wonder, and here it is.
But to praise the source of it all as an impersonal, cruel nothing
rather than an intelligent, creative something—
is to miss the love for the function and to miss intervention for happenstance .