Edited by Dava Sobel
We think of metamorphoses
as glorious and beautiful,
a quiescent
chrysalis emerging
as a yellow butterfly
slowly unfolding her
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translucent wings
letting them dry
in the open air
and flying off
in a flittering arc
reminding us
of our emergence from
the chrysalis of self-conscious
adolescence
into the less tumultuous
uncertainties
of adulthood and of
the final transformation
we yearn for, the moldering body
releasing the immortal spirit, but imagine
how the wormlike
caterpillar feels after a life
of serenely munching leaves
to curl herself
on the underside of a chosen leaf
secreting a fiber
spinning a cocoon, incorporating
twigs, urticating hairs,
fecal pellets, bits of leaf and bark
disguised from
predatory bats and nightjars
while the arrival works its magic and
if she’s aware
as all things are aware
rock, tree, wind
she must feel
her skin stretching, covering
her body now
a thing with wings
that doesn’t resemble
hope so much
as grace, the undeserved love
that comes into our lives
as a gift.
