Sunday Morning Chrysalis

Does the

 butterfly recollect 

what the caterpillar has lived? As she 

dissolves inside the chrysalis does she 

struggle to cling to a taste of green, the sun’s 

caress? Or is her miracle reckless abandon?

Dissolution a dream of nectar? And does she wake,

changed but oblivious, as one sometimes 

wakes, skin to warm skin, and

 the other is the world, and 

all the world is new 

and good?