No one asks a butterfly how she gets her wings, 
She is hidden in her cocoon, 
And they marvel at her metamorphosis, 
As she breaks through her shell, 
Stretching her colored scars for all to see, 
No longer a grub that crawls on her belly, 
But a beautiful mystical fairy that flies, 
That they pray will grace them with a kiss on their skin,

They would love to catch her, but she is elusive, 
A trauma response from when she was in the cocoon, 
And predators tried to clip her wings before they grew, 
The people, they will say, “look at her now! I knew her when she was belly aching!”, 
But they didn’t want to stay for the bone breaking lonely transformation,

No, she had to climb the tree; she had to build her cocoon, 
She had to go deep into the depths of her darkness, 
And form her new identity, slowly growing new appendages, 
Thoughtfully painting her wings, after isolation, 
After sometimes rapid and sometimes slow but always painful growth, 
After surviving predators jostling her cocoon at her most vulnerable 
After enduring nature’s hierarchy stating she is fragile, 
Stating she is tiny, stating she is insignificant,

It is then, the butterfly can burst through her cocoon, 
And spread her wings defying all expectations, 
She unfurls her new manifesto wings for the bystanders 
Who stopped to see the spectacle she performs, 
She knows now she no longer belongs on the ground, 
She no longer laments over her old scars, 
She made them a tapestry, 
Beguiling and enchanting even the most persnickety naysayer,
Bringing the joy of a child back to their heart, 
And hope that they too can overcome 
What grounds them into the dirt

~ By Hyacinth Hale