Metamorphosis


Or a reminder to my emerging self

I wonder,

does the butterfly ever look back 

on its chrysalis

and wish it could go back to being 

a caterpillar? 

Is it possible

that the unfamiliarity of flight 

creates longing

for the predictable certainty of life 

on the ground? 

Does freedom

always come with twinges of grief, 

a cutting away,

death, an empty shell all that is left 

of who one was? 

At first, relief

darkness gives way to blue sky. 

Exploration of

this world - full of new perspective, 

free to soar. 

Winds pick up

while dark thunderclouds stew.

Soaring high,

suddenly hurling to the ground;

existential threat. 

Inching along,

caterpillar’s sole job to eat, gorge itself.

Growing fat on

others reward, hard won victory 

broken tears. 

Perhaps smallness

affords simplicity, safety of sorts.

Preparation,

shoring up of resources to survive 

a dark night. 

I wonder,

does claustrophobia set in when the 

night endures?

Itching to break free, unaware of the 

struggle ahead. 

Does it forget

the pain of the dark, endless night 

when it craves

that familiar certainty, life on the ground,

small and safe? 

As thunder claps

and winds blow with great ferocity,

it must forget

the pull of gravity, the allure of 

great certainty. 

Beware the lies

nostalgia spreads with silver tongue,

that what once was

is better than all that one could be, better not 

to be free. 

Embrace discomfort.

At first a shelter, the chrysalis becomes a prison, 

asphyxiating hope. 

There is no returning to the past, only grief.

Now fly on.