The Wind Will Dance With Me

Poem written by Wendy Drexler, used with permission from the author

Tell me, is the caterpillar afraid
when it spins itself into a crysalis?
When it squeezes out
of its own skin? And what isn’t
the work of transformation?

So much is beyond my understanding—
smooth as wind, prickly, briefly sheltered
before the scatter, rotting, returning,
a chanting unanswered, long and low
from its dark pulpit.

I’m thin-skinned, undone by the humming
of what-could-be—buoyant with decay,
a tendrilled, curly creeper. I speak,
silver-sheened, in tongues. Polish
myself on stones.