“In the smallest leaf or lowliest worm, we may find forms that rival the stars in elegance — if only we should look without presumption.”
— Anonymous field note, Southeast Asia, 1887
I was not Born — in Drawing Rooms —
Nor draped — in Damask — Air —
But in the Bosom — of the Fern —
I make my Debonair —
The Dew — consents — to Kiss my Wings —
The Chlorophyll — my Shawl —
I dine — upon a world of Veins —
A banquet — minuscule —
My Armor — is a Tempered Light —
That shatters — into Shade —
Depending — on your Point of View —
Or how — the Sun — has played —
Some call it — “Iridescence” —
But only — from Afar —
They study me — through Polished Glass —
Then pin me — to a Star —
The Men — in Coats — will Prize my Frame —
My “Scutellum” — admire —
Yet take — no Notice — of the Grace —
That lit — the Forest Fire —
They measure — Leg — and Elytra —
As if — to make me Real —
But never hear — the Whispered Path —
My Antennae — would Reveal —
The Females — we are Larger Built —
Though rarely — find our Name —
They publish — all my Lover’s Wares —
But scarcely note — my Flame —
The Scholars — write of “Species Rich” —
With Breathless — Earnest Pens —
Then tear — our Birthplace — Tree — by Tree —
To build — for better Men —
What worth — is Bioluminescence —
If Light — is not Believed —
What Hope — has Evolution — left —
If Wonder — is Retrieved?
So — I reside — in Leaf and Loam —
A Citizen — of Green —
But Gilded — is not Gold — to Them —
And so — am not — Seen —
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