Metamorphosis

Honestwanderings 2016

 

A cicada pops
Out of her old shell.
Back-bending, Gracefully;
Surrendering
Into her new life.

Heart-upwards,
Completely open,
Vulnerable,
Quivering,

Trying out
Her strange new legs,
And then with one, enormous
Feat of strength,
She does the sit-up of a lifetime;
Pulls herself up and over
Her old shell,
And stumbles out, drunkenly.

Her swollen body glistening,
Soft, and new, and awkward,
Her wings crumpled like scraps of wet lettuce,

Will they really carry her?

Yes, somehow, they expand,
Unfold,
Slowly,
Gloriously,
Into the real stuff of flight.

Stiff, and strong, and transparent.

Her fresh skin hardens,
Her body suddenly lean and graceful,
She finds her feet,
And begins to crawl upward
With new confidence.

She will never fit
Inside that old shell
Again.

 

 

Last Breaths

photo credit: Pettirosso via photopin (license)

I saw the little bird’s

Last breaths.

Sweetly,

It surrendered.

Half-closed lids

Fluttering,

It sighed out it’s life.

It looked up at me.

Surprised,

The end had come

So suddenly,

Though it yielded open

With soft grace.

The cat wailed,

Agitated,

Triumphant.

I stood, shivering

With the immediacy

Of it’s passing.

What in me is dying now?

What in me knows triumph?

And yesterday, the hawk flew over

My open sunroof

Dangling prey,

Bloodied, furry,

Finished.

The hawk landed;

Satisfied.

For every victory,

There is loss.

And I wonder, do cats ever

Feel sorry

For what they’ve done?

One small life

Extinguished,

And the world spins on.

I guess, we are all

Dying,

In some way.

And now I wonder

What

I’ve won?