Metamorphosis

Rolling waters read us a bedtime story
Steadfast throughout the night
Without thought as to slumber or wake
Her story continues, without mistake

Our intimate cocoon, bone white stars and moon
We’re illuminated with warm vision
A wilderness path for change
Not knowing where or how to feel

How could we feel
without experience
How could we wait
So long, with patience and loss

Who could fill our cup
Running over, by the fire
No fear of embers changing
Face to face together and unknown

Post Script

This poem lives in a quiet moment—two people side by side, held within a small shelter beneath a wide sky. The world around them continues without pause, yet something within them has shifted. Not suddenly, and not all at once, but through time, through distance traveled, through lives already lived.

There is a sense here of arrival without announcement. Of finding oneself in the presence of another who moves with a similar rhythm—someone who does not interrupt the landscape, but belongs to it. The wilderness is not an escape, but a place where nothing extra is required, where being is enough.

What the poem gestures toward is not the beginning of love, but a recognition of it—after uncertainty, after endurance, after learning what it means to continue. The past is not described, but it is felt in the patience, in the waiting, in the quiet acknowledgment that some things can only be known once they are lived.

And so the poem does not resolve. It rests in a shared presence—close, open, and still unknowable. Not as a problem, but as something alive.