i look up

and little legs

and orange yellow wings

flutter by.

you can not toss a caterpillar

into the air,

and expect it to fly –

nor can you open a cocoon from the outside.

 tonight i sit by a fire

with flames the same colour

as the wings of the six legged earth angel –

oh messenger of Iris,

am i still a caterpillar, am i in a cocoon?

or is it simply that i fail to see my wings?

perhaps if  i look on yours, i will feel mine unfold.