Written by: Irene Hammer-McLaughlin

Your crisis of conviction
Of the ages and the aging
Left me a bereft,
stupid, scarred leaf  --
Trembling, weathered, soliciting 
something of a haven from 
Graver monsters still.

That I gave you 
So much tarp on which to trample
And the bit of flower I cultivated
Continues to gnaw at me.
The caterpillar now chrysalis
You are morphing into something beautiful
While I a mere rotting, invidious corpse.

Please, I beg you,
fly off that I may collapse
or  compose myself
(all compost and rot)
if not into something 
good and true
At least into something else.

You don't recognize yourself anymore.
Neither do I:
bearing no resemblance
to a creature once beloved.