reluctant butterfly

Monarch_Butterfly_Emerging

she cocoons herself, certain

(or is it afraid) that here is the place

where nurture and warmth abide;

since has been known, beyond these walls

is survival’s slow steady hunger.

thence, this onslaught of cold.

unwittingly, she has embedded

herself at the edge

of nectar, an ocean of liquid sunlight,

though it looks not at all like what she’d imagined

paradise to be- some verdant profusion

leaves for eternity

she resists being

drawn by the chaotic array

though its beauty beckons

she doesn’t trust wings in that ocean of need

there are too many blossoms,

and she is but one

fragile, uncertain,

she can withstand those winds

she favors these trees

with their roots holding fast

though she has heard that even they need

wind, to grow a strong heart

where hers faintly flutters

with transformation, yet incomplete

lest she risk the emergence.

for today,

pollination seems best bequeathed

to busy bumbles and bees

whose wings don’t seem to be drenched

by the task

of perpetuating the species

It may be that the part of us that was struck and hurt can never forgive, and that strangely, forgiveness never arises from the part of us that was actually wounded….. To forgive is to assume a larger identity than the person who was first hurt, to mature and bring to fruition an identity that can put its arm around the afflicted one…..We re-imagine ourselves in the light of our maturity and we re-imagine the past in the light of our new identity, we allow ourselves to be gifted by a story larger than the story that first hurt us and left us bereft. – David Whyte, from ‘FORGIVENESS’ in ‘CONSOLATIONS: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.” © David Whyte and Many Rivers Press 2015

I did not intend the excerpt above to be included in this post, but when I copied and pasted my poem from my working Word document, the text, which must have been on my clipboard, (surprise!) came along for the virtual ride, so I decided to let it be so. Interestingly, I hadn’t consciously realized at all that this was what I’d been writing about.

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M.C. Reardon

photographer~painter~poet

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