it’s the gaze of the June sun
assessing you
your misted skin an ember hue
a hand across your brow
it’s the breath of the warm air
when first light cotton slides
it’s the lap of the cold sea
along your toes
you feel it higher than your knees and so
you let the next soft something go
from the place that the close heart knows
it’s entry gained by heat and sigh
till nothing’s left to cast aside
old skin for new, wet wings untried
chrysalis and butterfly.