2
The caterpillar, a soft ribbon of questions and fear, looks up from the earth and asks the butterfly—bright flame of the sky—about transformation. What is it like to lose yourself, to surrender to something unseen?
The butterfly hovers in the light, its wings whispering answers. It is dying, yes. It is hunger that devours its own hunger. It is sleep so deep you forget what waking means. You will not recognize yourself. You will weep for the skin you shed, for the softness you left behind.
And then, the butterfly says, you will awaken. You will feel the world on the surface of your wings. You will carry light instead of weight. You will not crawl; you will float. You will drink sweetness from the mouths of flowers. You will know freedom that does not end.
The caterpillar shudders. But what if I am too afraid? What if I cannot bear the dying?
The butterfly drifts closer, its shadow a fragile kiss on the ground. Then you will never know the sky. You will never taste the wind. Yes, it is terrifying. But there is no other way to fly.
The caterpillar stares at the earth beneath its feet, its body heavy with all that it is. Above, the butterfly flits away, a resurrection wrapped in sunlight, leaving only the air to hold the question.
© R Gordon Zyne