Few creatures hold the shape of their childhood.
For some, the transition is easy-
A slow stretching of the skin to follow
The slow stretching of the self.
Are more violent.
The ghosts of dead childhoods
Cling to the reeds in the ponds
Tuck themselves under leaves and logs
The frail skeletal remains
Of a form too small
To contain all the potential
Frozen moments on the verge of flight
I value the physical touchstones of transition.
For more transitions, physical and otherwise, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.
After the rain, a thousand tadpoles flounder on the edges of the ponds.
If there is still a channel, a small connecting vein or artery, they will make their way back to the deeper body.
They are eaten or drown in the absence of water.
Adults are more flexible.
They persist in worlds their younger forms could only imagine.
A story sits at the edge of a rain storm.
We seldom write of calm swimming in cool waters.
Our tales are of frantic scrambling through fading pathways.
Of trying to breathe in unfamiliar worlds.
In the end, if we are very lucky, the tadpole shifts, metamorphosizes.
It is not the butterfly that we should hope to emerge.
The greatest symbol of survival, of balancing the worlds, is a toad.
A champion of life and literature
For more tales of straddling the divide, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.