She wasn’t always
The butterfly
I see now.
She was a caterpillar first,
Later emerging
With unfolded wings
So tender
I fear to touch them
Even with the tip
Of my finger or tongue,
Wings that yawn open
Before me to expose
Her inner being,
The curves of her
Like folds of a flower,
Needing to be pressed,
Shuddering when I do,
(at least in my mind)
All of her open to the
Light of day,
To be admired,
Blooming and fragile
Yet firm, too,
Toughened by her time
In deep hibernation,
And so, like a phoenix
She rises from the ashes
Of her demise,
More potent than before
Ane more tempting,
Though with an invisible
Sign saying: “look, don’t
Touch” only I
Always do.
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