Winter has faded
It is spring
Flowers dance
and bees sing

I stay suspended
devoid of haste
No need to breathe
still and braced

Silence reigns
The cocoon awaits
For the wings and
For summers gates!

feeling so small,
and powerless.
Holding tight to my row boat,
As the dark ocean waters,
storm both sides.
My matted hair, soaked,
covering my eyes.
I sail alone,
without direction.

and they want to cut me open.
take away what i was born with.

my therapist said we are all butterflies.
transforming, changing.
metaphorically.

but some of us,
are changing,
biologically.
under a knife.
to save our life.

and that is the hardest metamorphosis,
i can think of.

Fluttering against the seas of change
The waves are crashing
In brighter shades so adorned
Upon the winds so drafting

After crawling to the wreckage
Silken remains wither
No need to stay in these salad days
The winds so gently whisper

The wax shines brightly
Can sense the need to crawl
So begins the many lives
Until the end of summer, really had it all.

This soul sleeps in metamorphosis; resting not for it is neither like rain nor snow; but air instilled in cloud. It is neither fire nor smoke; but the seamless light in wood. It is no more the earth worm, not yet the butterfly, only a silent soul in chrysalis; it told of a spiritual sublime and altruistic authinticity, of tender truths, breaking beginnings & endearing endings.

Burning water
scars your skin.
Arched back, slipping
on the cold marble.
Trapped
like an animal, trying to

fly away.
A spark, a golden haze, a rainbow
as light meets water
Your prison
a glowing chrysalis.
The rush of

inspiration.
Flies fast
up, out of reach
It's wings
a vibrant orange
Rare and beautiful
It is

lost to you.
Slipping into darkness
The maze of the mind
A vast forest
Full of life, full of
dead ends.

You may catch a glimpse
of orange
through the mist.
Like a beggar, reach up with
grasping hands, desperate, feel
its touch, it burns
your frail fingers, and you
fall

into darkness
Blind as a beggar
Empty and cold, you wait
for the rush to return
the rush of wings
vibrant orange
rare and beautiful
butterfly.

The phone is ringing
but I don't want to get out of bed.

I'm a caterpillar stuck in a cocoon.
It's not my time to flourish -
no one else is home.

So I guess I have no choice but to be the butterfly
Then crawl back into my casing once more.