Field Work

I forget its beginning
 perhaps first found in The Origin of the Species
 or that strange story I read as a youth
  of the unknown naturalist–fiddler
  wading through that field of flowers
  scientifically concluding in his heart
  while evolution was still evolving
  that each creature unto itself
  is its own species
 Perhaps the same man
  who despaired at helping a butterfly
  to its death
  unrealized without allowing it
  fight out of its self–made cocoon
  to discover its own strength

The poets may take for granted your beauty
 taking you for something perennially special
The botanists may catalog
 your delicate reproducible features
The sellers may know what price
 you command at the market by your heritage

You grow beyond these interlopers
 your very bothersome incommodality
  is that prize secret hidden in your bud
Your uncouth break from tradition
 turns intellect superstitious
 renders traits broken and molted
The world rotates upon your axis
 seen afresh through your aspect
With a joyful pain the world births itself anew
The mysterious law of your specific genes
 hums a song composed in situ
This is what the world is dying to see
 Your nature is wild, naturally