by Kate Nezelek
Perfect little squirmers
don’t waste a thing, wings tucked
under the tissue– cellular
divination in the cocoon they become
what they’ve always been: flight coded
into their larva genes from the start,
we’re all closed for the season.
We’re all transforming, and I know
where I’m going– Phlox and Black-eyed
Susans, Astor, Floss Flower, home calling
down from the roots– I only wish
I didn’t have to crawl there.
