~ Emergence ~

There she weaves
By night and day.
With languid tones
And colors gay.

 Death be on her
If she ceases.
Her creation formed
By bits and pieces.

 She stops and views
Her work of art.
A tiny product
Of her aging heart. 

Completed in time
To her satisfaction.
She closes her eyes
In anticipation.

 She silently goes
To her castles chamber.
Silk she dons
For celestial slumber.

 In the dawn
When she awakes.
She leaves behind
The art she makes.

On bright blue wings
She soars to the sky
For she has emerged
A butterfly.


 Twanica Adcock
written 3-1-2004
2004 used with permission

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