Butterfly Backpack by Jocelyn Moore

Emerging from its self-spun grave, a Lazarus called forth.

It feels the breeze of warming air; adventure speaks, “Go north!”

As wet wings dry their crinkled folds, preparing for first flight,

And life moves in its tiny cells, it orients towards light,

Antennas dial magnetic fields; takes bearings from the sun,

It hears the song to launch and fly. A new life has begun!


It’s back pack from pre-cocoon days; with tattered, lumpy shape

Was hauled ‘oer rocks, twigs, raindrop lakes: a strenuous landscape.

Filled with new shoes and plant id, for caterpillar stage

But now must be left – – cast aside; for butterfly to raise.

It won’t fit over new found wings; the bulk will weigh it down.

A Butterfly must sail and soar – not meant to be earthbound!


No backward glance, it springs aloft; the size of apple leaf

And travels on the breath of God, its numbered days are brief.

I too am running out of time, to leave my former space.

Now metamorphosis complete, I seek a sacred place.

My backpack full of anger, tears, regrets from former days.

I leave behind this smoldering bag; I have new trails to blaze!


I’ll head to where I’ve never been, I too, now spring aloft.

So much to do and see and write, adventure yells:  “BLAST OFF!”

About Writing Women of Zurich

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