A foundling egg left on a milkweed doorstep
To never know its mother or near kin.
And foundlings all the future generations
Each questing north, vanguard of burgeoning spring.
Their every action programmed, automatic
Begs question then. Could memory be inherent?
Each egg bear imprint, area, grove, tree?
For later, summer over, autumn southing,
Late generations follow, southing too
And find that very grove, that tree in Mexico
To aestivate, endure, a future for their race.
Salmon ‘home’ to where they hatched. Birds follow birds
But Monarchs ‘home’ to somewhere that they’ve never known.
So could it be that HE who made this fragile flock
Calls home these wandering children to this fold.