Spring has spoiled in the heat
and sweats now lubricating my catharsis.
I have nursed far too long deep within
this tunneled wood
and must rise now as even reluctant spirits do
when they go up to judgment.
I will not be food for birds.
I await some final surge,
some deafening crack of the whip,
then I will leave my larva past
and will name my wings Amnesia.