Metamorphoses
Slipped from a cloud's womb I am, falling
As the pilot raindrop of a sharp shower.
Growing colder and whitening in harder softness,
As I slow down, as I drift lower.
A metamorphosis, I am told, although
I never hope to see such Summer beauty
As the butterfly emerging from a Chrysalis,
To live a brief and radiant life; then die.
I touch another life of beauty when I reach
The earth, the first flake to set upon
A tavern's stable yard in Bethlehem;
A thaw, and I am soon gone.
The chrysalis of a persecuted man, broken
Upon a cross becomes the Easter butterfly,
So radiant, with its white and gold and veins
Of blood; and it will never die.