IN PRAISE OF TRANSFORMATIONS
Not always dramatic. Often soundless.
As with a glass jar—
lidless, emptied, left to soak in a basin of warm water
which overnight turns cold,
the print-blurred
label
peeling off.
The word metamorphosis is grand; the process,
less so.
Tucked aside in curled or folded-over
green.
Sun, rain—
an allotted sufficiency of darkness and not-knowing,
then wings
and air, air, air.
Plume: