Beginnings are such fragile things,
New love’s delicate beau –
like morning mist collecting on leaves of honeysuckle
And falling off at the wind’s first sigh:
A dew! (I do!)
Beginnings are such beautiful things:
the first cracks in the white pupa shell,
show iridescent glimmers of a caterpillar dream
woven with mystery and homespun with leaves.
The first ray of light over a darkness will
paint redwood shadows behind acorns still
biding their time on the windowsill.
Later in the day, the afternoon sun
will scorch love’s petals dry as a nun’s,
cook the acorn in its big wooden shell,
fry the caterpillar in middle-age hell.