Who sends the droplets surging through the air?
A silent crone whispering, and the force inside
her crown may enter the holes in our faces.

We will pay attention to Her invisible moves,
imagine pain at our core— exquisite messenger—
and we will run quivering, until Death earths us.

These months rehearse us then; our days like
school. We surrender to the creatures who
teach us— try to hold onto life, to love.

We’re only cocoons, just wanna-be butterflies,
we writhe in tree tops above the dirt, the swaying
branch, the bud, the flower, moss, and root.

When thunder shivers and breathes with our kind,
we fly into the wind then land alone and below.
Metamorphosis plays for keeps.