~ 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
twanica@knology.net
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