Being Big


They need me to be a butterfly,

I need to hide;

they need me to see color,

I am digging for roots.

My children stand beneath

my arms, flapping them up and down,

looking at my body,

shaping their contour

to its tone and saying

the mantra of flight on my back:

a blue-purple butterfly.


The scuffing sounds of taking off

do not conform to size.

Elephants and butterflies

sound like sound to themselves.


The size of my estimation

is not all that profound.

My children need me

to fly.


I fly.


It’s really more like growing big than it is like being big.  But our children do ask us to come out of the chrysalis, don’t they?  And isn’t this, at least in part, why we allowed them to come through us?

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

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