as cold and silent as this,
so still that the tips of her fingers
are tinged with frost.
I want to ask her
what she's waiting for,
but I don't think she will
hear me.
She will not choose to listen.
Instead she stands,
bending before me and the world
in a long mocking bow,
waiting for the first sounds of warmth,
waiting for the clear echoes
inside her chrysalis.
Somehow I know,
in the swift darkness of my blinking eyelids,
only then will she fly.
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