Caterpillars recycle . . .

Inch up twigs alone

To become new



To sprout wings from no wings

Must be painful

With no loved ones

To give comfort

Or salve


Do they know

About becoming

When they inch

Into isolation?

No kinswoman

Has ever


To story the journey


The only ones who


Are butterflies

Who are already


Are already


Are already



What caterpillar

Could trust

Such (un)reliable


The ones that do. . .

Young ones,

Dumb ones,

Shunned ones. . .

They are (un)reliable too.


It must be painful. . .

In that cocoon


She must resist it


Beg God to make it stop

To ease the hurt of it

She must


Beat at herself

In the still, quiet, shell

That looks like peace

Before she tires

Lets it happen

Wills it so


And then the pain subsides

And she marvels

At the constriction of space

Becomes less tolerant of the darkness

Becomes less tentative in her attempts

To make herself free


The shell breaks

Or rather, she breaks it

And that too

Must be painful

And then the light breaks

Or rather, she embraces it

And emerges


New. . .



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