Transformations
THEY Wait
the caterpillar, the flower bud,
time is like a hand that does not compel
them, because by its unnoticeable grace
the process goes on and on
the caterpillar is caressed into a cocoon
in still air
stiller hours
of petals falling one by one
giving way to seeds
existence
the buds have no memories
what to tell
how one morning they all turn
into flowers
then wilt
upon the conquest of
sunset
some things too
have wings that flutter
happily
but only for
a day
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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