waiting for birth

Poppy petals are strewn
across my childhood, white and pink,
tiny, wrinkled, torn
from pods to be examined,
and wilt and die.

Deep-planted seeds in my soul
root in dark, unhurried.
Hope is hard—trust,
when nothing appears to grow,
and beauty is slow.

But air and light and touch
would kill this half-formed life,
scattering pink petals
where there could have been
a poppy field.



uninvited she comes
binding tight
    in burial clothes.
Left to hang
     to rot
     to die.

But no–
death wraps crack.
Tight folded wings
     shimmering color,
legs long, and few
The beautiful caterpillar
     gone. And now who?

Am I to fly?