This poem used to be a butterfly,
but now she’s a worm again, back
in her own wiggling skin, without

Sometimes she s(t)ings to the touch,
too much for just any ear to hear,
too low a tone to be breathed

Give her a year, cocooned. A moon
that might woo her with a solemn
song in full. A stone to throw to

Let her be. Let her be silent. Let
her be violent and shaken and
stirred and whirred by time and

Let her fly, when she’s known. Let
her taste the salt of her own song.
Let her bumble along and find her


Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenged, day 12


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