Death of the autumn Monarch

It's good to see, borne on the same wing,
  both flight and an aery death—


Beyond the impassioned spiny needlefloors,
  by winds coarsed,
it's still good to be a butterfly,
 alone, on a high Rose,
and even flying, it's the lone spectral
flyspeck of the Eye,
and even dying, the unambiguously autumn

  Monarch

Firstly,
 as  even cool selves catch on the poppy sun, it rises,
 fairy place where it goes,
& wing for wing  is the equal of any avifauna,
 vivific & bright!
Or surely as it flecks like a shade's partial outer
  it blurs into night that it's akin to

And the moonshades too, as if they fell laying
 ever their rigid needle-cold or
petal-tear, give death only as a flash or jaggy leaf.
 But we find her come from out
some doddered spider tree, tangled still, spun
 on the day's filthy dreck

Then
And she rises sure,loosening new into worlds.
  Look!
 seer to acacias,pearly bees,
just there as she's about to fade (pine green)
 and to breathe non-being ,
and where wings turn virginal again, red, red.

 As if moonshades fell for her, too!