The Metamorphic Moment

A kaleidoscope of butterflies
     seems to be drawn to me.
          I wonder
if I have blocked their passage?
     In a sudden flurry
they cover my arms, my face.
     Their stunning wings
slowly open and close. I’m frightened
     and yet I stand still.
I let them have their way with me,
     and they keep coming,
from as far as I can see thousands come
     in flutters and they are beautiful,
one of the good Lord’s finest abstract paintings.
     Each winged pattern slightly different,
          each a type, a kind onto itself.
Gracefully flit and fly around my head.
     Are they attracted to the sun
reflected on my shining face? the heat
     of my body? Who knows?
          —but I stand
in degrees of fear and awe as they 
     cling to my flesh.
Is it just a freak accident of nature
     or have I been chosen
to receive mother nature’s sweet caress?

The Metamorphic Moment

     Will the flutter lift me
through the same hole in the sky
     from whence they came?
Is it time? Will I, too, be transformed
     into a winged art piece?
They answer comes just after I accept my fate,
     my willingness to surrender
to whatever it is, to this moment.
     Suddenly the entire flutter,
          as if on signal,
               fly out and away
leaving me with a humbling sense
          of the miraculous.