in metamorphosis

 

the Buddha says everything changes:

spring light widens into evening,
snow falls, melts, falls
again, a caterpillar chews through
leaves, becomes sole occupant
of chrysalis as if taking back
misspoken words, transforming
curses from turgid grubs into
yellow-dotted fritillary fleetness

in metamorphosis, speech opens,

thoughts are butterflied,
and eye and silent tongue in mouth
traverse a poem’s lines as silk creates
a texture of words, weaving

every thing changes. things become
non-things become no-thing become
nothing, not, knot.

like a butterfly, orchid sepals spread wide as if to spin

fall to windswept earth, mingle with dust and milkweed

 

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