I don't ask
for wings—
but in my sleep
they come
sudden as
a shrug—
soft verb of lift.

I flit
where light
lets me—
I sip
from things
that wilt
so brief—
the feast
of bloom.

When
I return—
I am
furred
in the dark
green world
of a caterpillar—
but when
you make me
dream
I feel
like a butterfly.