INSIDE THE CHRYSALIS IN THE SNOW
When the man leapt out
on to the dance floor
at the last minute
he suddenly found himself
standing among those seeking
and available: a singular
congregation of women
AND men, both.
It flew from the hand of
the newly wedded bride
like a motley flock of birds
all different in shape,
size, color and species.
It glided and spun in the air
like another bride dancing
toward her groom. Like possibility
intricately bundled and fully adorned.
The man watched it clear the tiara
of the goddess in front of him
and then quite simply
alight in his hands.
The bridal bouquet did this.
He stood stunned
looking at the most sacred
and voluptuous creature
of arrangement
he’d ever seen or held.
It was a ceremony unto itself
in his hands
under the antlers
and branches
and mirror ball
artfully arrayed
from the rafters above.
The room swooned and howled
at the catch the man made—
a catch he did not mean to make.
A catch that left him feeling
like he was the miracle
that got caught.
All this, and so much more,
took place like a prayer
of new beginnings
inside what looked like,
from the outside,
a village-sized chrysalis
wrapt and glowing in the snow
under a waning gibbous moon
as translucent, sacramental flakes
fell like kisses and blessings
from the amorous stars above.
