FO RGOT T E N F IE LD S R E ME M BERED Thomas Ford Conlan Once on a forgotten field remembered a rejuvenated farmer mowed flowered weeds. Rows upon rows of volunteer grasses shorn of color and hue, mowed down, deep down to healthy, green stalks. Gone the purple thistle and thorn. Away dearest Queen Anne’s lace. Wild mustard cut and slashed. He watched as tiny yellow butterflies flew by, fluttering, as grasshoppers sprung about in play. The farmer mowed carefully, with no abandon. He saw leaves rising true. He saw the milkweed home of a reluctant ruler. Round these plants, these unlikely mansions, his rows uneven though he cared not for order. A chance, just one chance to save the palace free. His toil completed, he moved along to another field, discovering another minor world. Perchance, there floated the king, the monarch black and orange. A reluctant ruler passed briefly by, blessed the farmer with a twinkling of wings.
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