i look up
and little legs
and orange yellow wings
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.