He woke in the spring.
He did not feel beautiful.
He cried and took wing.
His chrysalis gone,
Warm summer grass became bed,
Clinging on, he slept.
Leaves fell with autumn,
The grass wilted and skies greyed,
He was left homeless.
Tired, he sought refuge.
A crevice, a bed of stone.
Then the winter came.
Question from Lucero I. from Facebook
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 