Thursday, October 29, 2009
I can't think of anything in nature more mysteriously beautiful than the metamorphosis of a butterfly. It is such a picture of hope and second chances.
Throughout the barren winter and in the dark of night,
on dismal days when color is unexposed by light,
an altered life abides its self-made shell
while the things that best could lift it from out of the abyss
expand, useless and crumpled inside the chrysalis.
Creature’s plight could be perceived as pitiful mischance,
restricted by its nature and blind by circumstance.
No future can prevail for one so dead.
Confounding recollections of a less than lustrous past
Transcend present existence by margin wide and vast.
Somehow, despite misgivings and elements endured
The creature feels a stirring, a tiny rip is heard.
Perhaps there is a future after all!
Then blinding rays invade the creature’s dank and dreary space
Enlarging and exposing a life within that place.
Although its whole existence hangs by a silken thread
New warmth floods in, surrounds it, reviving what was dead.
“Alive for what?” the situation begs.
And now it finds the number of its legs has been reduced.
By whose sad misadventure was this tragedy induced?
It’s now finished emerging from out its tight cocoon.
A tingling sensation spreads through its members soon.
Just what it means is more than one could guess.
Its wobbly legs are strengthened and fresh air unfurls its wings,
now swelling up with hope and fortitude that hoping brings.
For hours it sits immobile, yet quivers in the wind.
As transformation finishes, bold hues merge and blend.
Life-sustaining blood now surges through.
Translucent, dazzling wings spread outward with uncanny ease,
and hope, like butterfly is buoyed upon a lilting breeze.
Please take time to stop by Christina Banks' blog, WITH PEN IN HAND, for more Friday Fiction.