Butterfly of Metamorphosis

Creative Chrysalis,

I am Crone, alone,

lost, latent,

potent, nascent inside Myself.                                

Clenched waning in hope of waxing

in My own

dark left hand,

I squirm, worm, entombed,                

mummy, dreaming butterfly.

Mystery works like yeast in Me,

transforming.

Will I be butterfly emerged from a cocoon?

I was the butterfly

before I entered center’s crucible.

I became a caterpillar

tangled in my own web,

dreaming of becoming spider.

I find the incandescent chaos line

dividing life and death

and hover there.

I find My sister-self:

abandoned, lost,

bereft, betrayed,

a torn cocoon,

dark side of the moon,

butterfly’s mirror wing,

completing

the creative circuit of My power.

Transformation eats at Me,

consumes Me in My crucible. 

After the clawing, tearing free,

wet in the bloody juice of beauty,

My dawning crescent opens,              

releasing wings ephemeral,

Hope reborn,

eternally self-renewing,

tattering in chaotic storm.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018