Becoming.

When things grow too tender to handle, to touch, look over, memorize, understand, or fondle, where do one's fingers go? What becomes of that delicate chrysalis after so much healthy physical comprehension, when everything goes white and the world dissolves into a gossamer dream? Do we all evolve into beautiful, winged sisters? Is there hope for each of us, that the Earth's air will hoist us up into the highest high? Though it may only be two weeks of gliding over others, licking sap off towering trees, and resting with your siblings, it remains two weeks of being. How many humans may claim such?

Things are so fast evolving beyond tired grocery lists and sodden tea bags for me that my skin has been pickling with uncertainty. My soft, sea-white thumbs have shriveled away from the threat of change, the threat of the dangerous stage of becoming pupa, becoming somebody, anybody else overwhelming them. My lank, tired hair is splitting quietly in protest, while my eyes even seem to cross, trying to balance out the tides of change.

We are growing, thumbs. Split ends, crooked teeth, sore feet- we are becoming. I forgive you your tenderness and your fear, but a parched resolve cannot stop what is coming, what is becoming.

What is becoming?