a winged lament

the butterfly must lament,
even if briefly,
the loss of the cocoon,
mourning departure from
familiar home.

unaware its new form,
yet undefined,
a shape emerges from
cracked and peeling shell,
losing as it does
the smell of safety,
tight pressure against
aching limbs,
eyes wet with
dew and tears for
what is no more…

but as fluids dry
wings unfurl and
a gentle wind
catches beneath
lifting as it does
new and beautiful
extensions toward
the glowing sun
soon to carry
body high,
thoughts the same.

i cannot help
but wonder;
are we now
as butterflies
fresh in the world,
waiting only for
the breeze,
or are we as flies
nearing now
the end of their short lives
wondering when our wings
might fail?