}{.

the butterfly’s wings could never reveal the anguish of cocoon dissolution
her tremulous triumph is tasked to disclose that which his beauty will always belie
the paradox of faith is that hair-like hush that hovers across their fragile flight  

.{Chrysalis}.

consider those ironclad lilies of field.

they do not toil. 
they do not spin.  
yet they are clothed. 
 
they are clothed 
…….
by God. 

	 all i do is toil.       i only know how to spin.  

‘perhaps this means i am no flower’ i whisper to proboscis honeybee hums. 

nectar and nakedness consummate air.  
a sepal-clad sigh trembles.  

         one dew drop appears. 
 i peer into the faces of its reflection.  
  
three whispers
      ///

two, my own.  
soft hips of silent grasses sway

.}eclosion{.