Since I couldn’t read, I wrote

is not always transparent
goo like the monarch,
garbling the green and yellow
and white of caterpillar
and reassembling into orange
and black wings,
slender body, graceful
like a flower whose petals
tread the air softly,
cottonwood fluff riding the breeze.
If one day you emerge
from your chrysalis,
and two hours of flexing
your wings later, you fly,
good for you.
We are not all so lucky.