I slip on this chosen shelter, hide
within silken walls and wonder—
How long will these layers hold?
Fragile pearlescence surrounds me-
who’s to say? My shattered self
is still, waiting.
Gauzy quiet and singular,
barren days envelop
me by the hour. I take pains
with my words, listen more,
defy the urgency of unnecessary
things. Spinning a private
insulation preserves me
heart and mind, a soundless
cushion while my soul heals.
No one can chart a butterfly’s
birth. Not really. Skin is shed, the
surprise of color shocks as wings
unfurl, breathing life into deep-
Chrysalis—gold. All that remains
when death is past and days
have vanished. New life comes,
unfurls its way to the neverseen.
Eclosion complete, I raise my
wings and fly.
This poem is an edited version of a previous post, written after my daughter and I experienced the events of September 11th, 2001. You can read my original thoughts about cocooning HERE.
Header photo credit: Peter Ethan Collins