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

Pretend

care for

 that

Which is not yet born

In flight.

 

In my cocoon

The creepy caterpillars

Of my nightmares die

And a new body

Full of promise

Chrysalizes

If only while I can still lie

And to self lie

In my imagination and deny-

all.

 

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

Undisturb-ed

Dreams.

 

And yet. . .

The waking antennae

Of my soul

Begin to sense that

In my cocoon. . .

 

There is no room for

Laughter

Friendship

Shared meals

Warm Sunshine

Rain

Dry toes

Wet leaves

Cinnamon rolls

Spontaneous Grins

Splashy Puddles

Or

Hope.

 

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

Or

Love.

 

In my cocoon

I will never, ever, ever

Know

Risk

Understand

Hurt with

Imagine

Create

Touch

Be touched by

Or

Trust.

 

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

Alive

The same,

Yet some one brand new.

 

Today

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.