The Recipe for Flight

They told him to wait,  

to cradle the cocoon gently,  

like holding a secret too tender  

for the loudness of the world.  

But patience is a foreign language,  

and his hands speak urgency.  

So when the cocoon trembled,  

an answer to some ancient call,  

he reached for the scissors.  

The thin shell parted like paper,  

revealing wings yet unfinished,  

veins too frail for the sky.  

He wanted to help it grow,  

to rush freedom into an open air,  

but the butterfly fell to earth,  

wings folded, breath slipping away.  

No one told him the struggle was  

the recipe for flight,  

that sometimes the hardest thing  

is to hold back your saving hands.