It is after long rain

that birds must therefore

stretch out their wings

to fly; and in the same

manner, after fortitude fails,

we must brush off the

throes of sickness or

despondence and walk again.

But first, we crawl,

And we wade through

swamps and marshland,

searching––always searching––

for bits of ourselves, or others,

to discover wholeness where

there can be only partialness.

Yet we press onward,

unto the breach, where,

withal, we fall into

Darkness. So what have we

left when we lie in

shallow, hallowed grounds

amid the ancestral bellows of

our kith? When decay turns

us to flowery shoots, we

grow, dandelion-like, toward

the sun, our nurturer, sprout

fluffy heads, and fly away.

But first, we crawl,

As caterpillars, over leaf shoots,

and cocoon ourselves,

metamorphosing into gorgeous

monarchs. And in time, we 

will stretch out our wings,

shaking off moisture,

and soar.

But, as always,

we must first crawl.