Butterfly

A cocoon—a harden breath of winter's whisper.

Thrive into the crevasses, the grooves, the drips of the spring's dew.

Born in the memory, the flicker, the shimmer, the remark of a star GRIPPING upon
darkness reminding us why we dream.

A slash of color hidden beneath the wraps of a desire to be. Something new. The pitter heart, dashes with glory. With excitement. Anticipation.

Silent graves lurking on the sway of the wind—the branch nearly raw. Exposed. Hangs but a life—delicate the string.

There, when spring finally twists and spirals over the horizon, does it lick
across the home of a dreamer.

Crinkle. Crack. Rebirth.

A cocoon—an echo shell of something much more.

{ When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.

~Victor Frankl }