Metamorphoses

 

I displayed the rare butterfly,

suspended on its brief passage

beyond metamorphosis,

in a transparent plastic bag.

 

Its veins ridged out to wingtips

through an azure iridescence

so rich with the mid-June sun

its slim body would soon weary.

 

We peered into unfamiliar eyes

manifold in their unimaginable

contemplation; so unlike us,

these eyes, these antennae, this head.

 

One child reached slowly into the bag,

unsure of this butterfly,

mindful most of the dog's snap,

the sharp prick of kitten's claw.

 

I coaxed the six insect legs

onto an apprehensive finger,

then eased the covering away,

seeking a second chrysalis.

 

The blue butterfly emerged

holding on, and as it came forth,

connections unfolded with it,

bridging into transfigured eyes.

 

The child, distilled in mystery,

this life, still as death, balanced still

on a whisper's length of finger,

would now be forever someone new.

 

And poised on the limb of the child's life,

as if time had abandoned time

and, by this, was itself fulfilled,

the blue solitude spread its wings.