“Spring Showers” by Peter
Williams
I don’t remember my past life, but what I do remember
is always being hungry. Awoke in a spring morning by a sliver of light. The
light grew and grew, I felt my legs shake free and then I felt something I
never felt before… My back twitched outstretched. I started to slip down, out
of the darkness and into the light. With my now free arms and legs, I held on.
Finally, I lifted my head and was blinded by white. The purest white I’ve ever
seen. Blinking, I found my world had turned upside down. Below me (or is it
above me now?) I saw the former shell of
my existence. Behind me I saw my wings for the first time, a beautiful pattern
of orange and black, the result of months of metamorphosis. I clung to my
cocoon that last piece of self-identity I had left. I didn’t remember ever
making my cocoon, I didn’t remember anything. All I knew was that something new
happened to me. Saying goodbye, I let go of my former self quite literally. My
wings caught myself on pure instinct, not letting me fall and up-righting
myself. I now saw the world differently; I may never see it like I did once
before. The field was decorated with bright colored flowers, my food and my new
home all at once. That first day, turned into my first night. Then night led to
my second morning. But it was not a morning like the first one I could
remember, the light was replaced by a screen of gray. I would have to learn
this life, if I were to ever to survive. The world was retaught to me in all
its good and bad, its grace and horror. The clouds’ stomachs growled as water
began to fall from the sky. Water, deadly and beautiful, scary and yet
nurturing. We insects fear and revere water, but we treasure it as well.
Besides my hunger, I also remember my thirst from my past life. A thirst that
was never fully quenched. Now it was became compensated for in overabundance. I
took shelter under the petals of a familiar perennial. I remember wondering to
myself “What do butterflies do in a
downpour?” As it happens, the answer is…
“They get the
hell out of it!”
“Wait, what was that?” I asked the full-grown Monarch
before me.
“They get the hell out of it, Caterpillar,” he said
matter-of-factly.
“But, you have wings. Surely, butterflies like you can
dodg—“
“No, we can’t. That amount of water wrecks our flight
pattern. In fact, too much can kill us, you too little Catetpillar,” he
explained by rudely interrupting me.
I scooted in my
usually way across the sun flower, onto an outer petal and closer to my new
friend the Monarch. We were family; I was one of the monarch clan as well. But
in this life I was a Caterpillar with the only dream of living to my second
stage of life.
“Still, even though it has its dangers (especially in
a downpour), flying must be incredible,” I marveled.
“True, you too will learn this. In time, that is,” he
counseled.
“No, I don’t think so. This life is too hard. How ever
did you get through it?”
“I don’t remember, but all I do know is… it doesn’t
matter what you are in this life, what only matters is what you will become.
Another monarch butterfly taught me that when I was a caterpillar like you,” he
regaled.
“If you can’t remember your life as a caterpillar, how
can you remember you were told that?” I inquired.
“I don’t know. But in life, there will always be
things we will never know,” he assured me. We heard the clouds stomachs’
growling. We looked up as the light that once slipped through their cover was
shielded. Everything turned gray.
“Better find some shelter, Caterpillar. We will meet
again. Maybe not again in this life, but surely in the next,” he said as he
began to flap away.
“Farewell, my friend. Til then!” I watched him flying
into sky. I kept on watching, I could no longer make out the details of his
magnificent wings. Drops began to fall from the sky. Sparsely as it did not
arise any immediate danger to use. But they are times when lightning strikes,
and doubly so with raindrops. One found its way and hit the back of my Monarch
friend. I saw him stagger and fly out of sight. I couldn’t help him.
Frightened, I crawled down under the perennial.
“What do
butterflies do in a downpour?”
“Wait, what was that? Who said that?” I said looking
around where I landed under one petal of the perennial.
Down below I saw a monarch caterpillar climbing up the
flower’s steam to greet me.
“Oh, I was just asking what butterflies do in a
downpour,” he asked.
My answer
surprised even myself.
This is another assignment I am proud of. It is an acrostic poem responding to another poem, similar to a poet that we read in class.
This is another assignment I am proud of. It is an acrostic poem responding to another poem, similar to a poet that we read in class.
The He by Peter Williams
Near death I flew to that shore,
Every breath may have been last
to bore.
Vivid was the sight of that house
and its door.
Eager was I for living,
Raven eyes started weaving,
More and more I began breathing.
Old voice scared of circumstance,
“Raven! Raven!” in his chant.
Even though I said no word,
some foulness he still
heard,
but he,
a man,
and I,
a bird.
