david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

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Metamorphosis

 

How does a caterpillar  become a butterfly.

How does it feel inside the chrysalis.

Is it aware of anything changing.

When does it become aware again.

 

How does it wait so patiently

to dry off its wings,  and fly.

Does it have any memory

of when it could only crawl.

 

How long does it think it will be,

before it is something else.

How did every molecule of its beautiful

wings know exactly what color

to choose.

 

.

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She said––

bowling balls keep falling out of your ears and

I want you to be careful because

I don’t want to break my stilettos.

 

She said––

your knee caps are schools of fish

that sometimes take off   in different directions

and if you don’t get better climbing the stairway

I can’t let you visit   anymore.

 

She said––

you are an apple, but I’m the tree,

so don’t ever hurt me, because

you’ll only be hurting yourself.

 

She said––

you are a spaceman and the only grounding you have

is the dust on the bottom of your space boots,

and that’s o.k. but why can’t you have more gravity,

when you look at the stars in my eyes.

 

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