Metamorphosis

Safely
wrapped
inside
the chrysalid.
Cloaked in
appropriate action
and matching
predictability.
Drone.
Dispassionate.
Dormant.

Until your ignorance—
of magic
and second chances
and love—
shattered
the false refuge.
And I,
laid bare
and fetal-curled,
with
old life seeping
from my eyes,
enough
to drown.

Choking, thrashing.
Retching words
of sorrow and
confusion.
Grasping helpless
in the murky
residue
of memory.
What light?
What life
beyond all this?

Until…
Colors
bold and strong
unfurled.
Beating in
singular cadence.
Defiant
in the face
of ordinary.
Hungry for
exultation.
Rising!
Reborn!
Resplendent!

What Sound, Change?

I remember
sitting on the front porch
that August night
my father died
thinking surely I would know.
Surely there would be
some sign
some sound
to note the if and when
of his passing

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

I remember
leaving you
two years ago
this day
thinking
“I will never see you again.”
No fanfare.
No crescendo.
Wet gravel beneath my tires,
winter rain against the window--
change’s only notes.

I remember.
Its aftermath
still echoes
like the tempest
that brews
overhead
this morning.

I want
the thunder to
crash loudly.
Rattle the roof
and windows.
Mark the anniversary
with ferocity

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

Joy Song

Every child is an artist.