anguish comes, abrupt with fire,
yet remains nascent in seasonal leanings
towards light
we are stilled by what has passed
before our eyes, unopened
we are bestowed by beauty,
ripened by her quiet touch
caterpillars cannot imagine such rapture,
what may rise from innocent dreaming,
what visions may beckon
from following their small paths of leaves,
their appetites both delicate and voracious
once defined by our gifts and misgivings,
we look not ahead but behind,
our wings stiffened by an ache of remembrance
little rivers flow slowly from our bent fingers,
reaching for an ocean we cannot see -
we can only believe it is there, waiting
for waves' swift, determined return to shore
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