Metamorphosis

Wonder is the five-pointed star
tucked tidily into the Cottonwood's new growth,
where it waits, patient,
as the next red giant unhinges itself
from the rich blackness above

It is that moment when a roomful of strangers
transform themselves,
tipping into something intimate--
a single, self-satisfied organism
each part glad to be close to the other

Wonder is knowing the story
behind a song first uttered
in a long-ago barn,
where denim-clad farmers run
sweaty palms along their strong legs,
eyes focused
on the meandering line of women across the room,
each smelling of fresh bread and cotton

It is the crackle of synapse
like tying a shoe for the first time
. . . and I am left breathless in its wake

Wonder is turning 51 only to realize that
I might as well be 15,
such are the things yet to be discovered

It is to wake up,
willing to listen
to walk
even to touch
the barbed and knobby things that startle me
--the fear slipping off my hands,
warmed by facts and faith and
first-round introductions

Wonder--taken properly--
is always metamorphic,
nudging one from egg to larvae,
pupa to adult

And I know now
that wonder is
these wings I wear,
wings that will hold me aloft,
carrying me to
the promise of sweet nectar

Wonder is why I'm so willing to let go
and leap.