You’ve been the cocoon, the grub,
isn’t it time for the butterfly to emerge?
In winter, you wrapped woolens so tight,
your face lost touch with your body.
And then when weather turned, ice-statues thawed,
yours was the path of most resistance.
You crawled when others ran.
You nibbled on leaves while the rest
of the world dined in splendor.
The garden is amazed by its own color.
The lawn is rife with grass. But nothing
of you is flitting in and out of that world.
You’ve got too many legs. Your body’s
long and green, unsuitable for framing
in the nearest mirror. Where are the wings?
Where are the billowing colors?
You move slow enough to not go far
and, even then, you never get there.