Butterfly

In the stillness of the afternoon,
the cat, white as a page unwritten,
watches the final breakdance of the world.
There’s no stopping the slow slide forward,
no pausing the inevitable march of change.

Inside the cocoon, a caterpillar dreams
of the air beyond,
of the wings it doesn’t yet know it will have.
This is the secret: to change with grace,
to stay fluid, like water finding its way,
curious as the cat’s unblinking eyes.

It’s best, I think, to shift before the snap,
to bend before the break.
But if the breaking comes—
and it will—
let it be a doorway,
a delicate hinge that swings you into the light.

There are no shortcuts here.
You are nothing but your habits,
each one a brushstroke on the canvas of your life.
The better the stroke, the clearer the picture,
the more vivid the wings you’ll wear.

Step by step, you move forward,
emerging from the quiet dark,
from the self-imposed silence of the cocoon.
What do you do when there’s nothing to be done?
You do what you can—you grow wings.

FSF