I did not begin as a caterpillar.
I've never known how to be a small thing,
how to creep and feed and patiently work
toward metamorphosis. I was all fits and
starts in the beginning, a cycle of rush
and fumble, of falling in love & falling
down the only evolution I've ever known.
So, I set my wings in ink to still them,
pinned them in open positions around my
heart: at rest but receptive. I learned
how to simply listen, how to
want without chasing, how to
bask in light without
throwing myself at it
in full-bodied violence--though I can't
promise that I won't sometimes rush too
quickly out the gates every now & then,
that I won't get so lost in the moment
that I can't find my way back to myself
when the moon tugs too hard at my
nocturnal nature. I would have to
surrender all my recklessness and
half myself to keep that vow.
The balance I've built does not meet in
the middle, but is measured twice: once
in the quiet I have cultivated and once
in the shameless joy I began with.