Metamorphosis
We caterpillars
went about our days
doing our usual things
thinking it all important,
those multiple stubby legs,
busy, our razor jaws
chomping on milkweed,
our little lives
encompassed by routine
and myopia, oblivious
to a larger world–
on and on and on
and then, without
enough warning,
we are compelled
into a chrysalis state,
cocooning ourselves away
separating from everything,
suddenly surrounded by
tightly closed walls.
Shut off, we turn to mush.
We think we might die;
there is fear and anxiety,
uncertainty, as well as
considerable apathy
and acquiescence,
giving into
listless idleness
that demands transformation.
We become like a bowl of jelly,
waiting, for some application,
a purpose, which marshals itself
silently, imperceptibly, ever so
slowly, working both within
and beyond our focal point,
and things start to
shift and change,
we begin to get things done
during our constraint,
potential and hope inch
toward future realization,
and the goo that we became
commences to congeal, coagulate.
Shapes activate, reorganize,
and fall into prescribed places.
Now we launch into
wondering whether maybe
we’ll finally
emerge from this
solitary confinement;
maybe we’ll be better for it,
improved. Maybe our freedom
will no longer be tethered
to the lower things;
maybe we’ll see a wider,
more glorious world
in ways we cannot yet imagine,
participating with it
more beautifully.
Maybe our hearts will soar,
and we’ll henceforth delight
all those that see us;
maybe we’ll experience
a new lease on life
that is only amplified
by having been
clenched and alone,
removed from before,
forced into a quiet time
like a child put in time out:
to hunker down and reassess,
so when finally released,
will be what was meant all along,
with a probing proboscis
that slurps sweet nectar
out of life, marveling,
cheerful and grateful,
with miraculous wings
gently drying in the sun,
contemplatively,
flapping to and fro,
opening and shutting,
then to flit forth,
fluttering
into the destined,
fabulous future.
by Polly Castor
4/15/2020 during COVID-19
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7 Comments
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Ah, yes, the gossamer illusion
Sure seems to be one we
Get into
And must
Get out of… somehow.And yet…yet…
All the while,
We are and always have been
God’s idea, “man!”The Earth was never flat.
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That onomatopoeia at the end surely gives us the flapping wings! Your daily effort helps me cope with this nasty time.
I vainly include a butterfly poem I wrote 20 years age.I, I, a butterfly
Did flap my wings against the sky,
Then danced and turned and turned and danced
Until the day began to die.
And then in one outrageous arc
I flew to Cleveland in the dark
And danced upon the streets ’til dawn
Awakening hope where it had gone,
Then called to flight before midday
Ten thousand butterflies away…
And there we flew-a squadron new-
and flapped our wings in bright array !-
Author
Charming!
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Love this ? yes, isn’t it just one grand illusion we must awaken from to see who we’ve been all along?
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The photos are great accompaniment to your poem! Are these yours? If so, where did you take them? Beautiful!
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I had google’s help on these, although 98% of what you see on my site are mine.
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Hope that blossoms into faith.
Are we born?
Or are we born again?
If my crystal ball were not broken,
I would share the answer with you.
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