In My Cocoon a poem by Jane Tawel

In My Cocoon

By Jane Tawel

January 2, 2019


In my cocoon

I lie

As yet, unraveled

by the winds and swatters

of the awaiting day.


In my cocoon,

I do not need to fly

Into, out of, despite.

My day’s wings are not yet formed

And I can ignore


care for


Which is not yet born

In flight.


In my cocoon

The creepy caterpillars

Of my nightmares die

And a new body

Full of promise


If only while I can still lie

And to self lie

In my imagination and deny-



There is nothing scary or sad,

Without a heart or brain,

In my cocoon:

No Pain, No Gain, No Blame;

No feigned vain reigns

Of kings or queens

or me.

And the rain in Spain falls always on the train

Because all the moments

Are all the same

When I am tourist-ing life

Sweetly paralyzed

In a cocoon.


In my cocoon

Nothing hurts and

Nothing hurts me

And my pupils

Remain closed

While the pupa of my

Solitary, sedentary self




And yet. . .

The waking antennae

Of my soul

Begin to sense that

In my cocoon. . .


There is no room for



Shared meals

Warm Sunshine


Dry toes

Wet leaves

Cinnamon rolls

Spontaneous Grins

Splashy Puddles




In my cocoon

I can not hear

The notes and chords

A baby’s bleating cry

The breezes

The pitter-patters

The gurgling waters

Giggling waders

Gorgeous sunset weepers




In my cocoon

I will never, ever, ever




Hurt with




Be touched by




And so

I begin to shed all

That would keep me here

Incomplete again.

I digest the self of yesterday

Willing wings to grow

Though still small and damp

With tomorrow’s fears.

I emerge.


Today it is enough for me

To materialize again


The same,

Yet some one brand new.



I’ve never been a butterfly,

But I will learn in this new moment

How to use my wings.


And being a slight grey moth

Is enough.

Moths can also fly.


And with a small amount of creature luck

tonight there will be

A new cocoon to rest in

To grow in hidden promise

unaware to all

Even to my moth-holed self.


And someday

I hope to wake

And find the whole World

Has been cocooning

Until Eden is restored

And Butterflies

rise from their

imagined cocooning graves,

Never to die.

Published by

Jane Tawel

Still not old enough to know better. I root around and explore ideas in philosophy, spirituality, poetry, Judeo-Christian Worldview, family, relationships, and art. Often torn between encouragement & self-directed chastisement, I may sputter, but I still keep trying to move forward.

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