Poem for Daily Prompt, Metamorphosis

How we Middle-agers Earn Our Wings

The un-remembered

tension:

butterfly

with

pick and shovel

mines

to find the diamond

sky.

Without question,

Born to fly.

Not

so for

the writhing

Human–

born of

breath’s

determination;

born

to gravity,

finds the gavel,

sure of nothing

nor

of why.

Till

in hard-

blood

sequestration,

quinquagenarian

muscle

dies;

to show us

life

among

the wise.

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