The Icelandic Canadian - 01.04.2007, Blaðsíða 39

Vol. 61 #1
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
37
Poetry
by Simone Renee Morin
Metamorphosis
Before the change,
does a caterpillar know what it will become?
Has it been shown, told, what it can, cannot be?
Does it have a choice?
Caterpillars
cradled, safe in chrysalides,
babies in warm buntings,
butterflies-to-be
swaying to breezy lullabies.
Moths
shilelded in cocoons,
hunkering in bunkers,
low-down, under-foot,
swaddled in dusty dirt.
Butterflies emerge;
sunlight from a rainbow’s arc.
Slender, lithe, winged angels,
muses for the artisans,
treasure for collectors,
divine royalty, esteemed;
basking in the light.
Moths spill forth;
staining the night gray-brown.
Plump, frizzy, unsightly,
harbingers of death,
foreshadowing disease,
devalued, disesteemed;
obsessed with the light.
Fate? Chance?
Circumstance?
Prophecy - divine or self-fulfilled?
Tell me,
before the change is there a choice
between chrysaliss and cocoon?