On a single day, the speaker holds several losses at once. It is the anniversary of her mother's death, and the news that the ivory-billed woodpecker is extinct, again, seems to close the book on a hopeful idea of progress. Then an ordinary evening, with salad being made, is interrupted by a friend who has found a monarch butterfly on a goldenrod stalk and wants advice.
The two women do what people do when they can't fix something: they guess. Orange means inedible, maybe; the butterfly might be late or just tired. The poem's tone is quiet and a little wry, but the question "does it matter?" hints at helplessness. They leave the butterfly sheltered with some nectar. The ending is the most telling part. "It was gone, / we told ourselves, on its way" admits that the comfort is a story they choose to believe. The mood is gentle, tender, and shadowed by grief, with small hope held cautiously.