Soldiers to Butterflies

Who do you pray to for some yearned-for stasis? To the Versace-clad ‘saints’ of the sun and the moon, on your knees in candle-wax-covered churches? Or to dark Maximon, down by the water, with cigars and liquor and something forbidden in a small wooden box?

Perhaps the only real salvation is to change with everything else and embrace the surrender. Gently raked and spread, and dried in the sun like coffee beans across the hills. When they crack and pop, they too are transformed, from ‘soldiers’ to ‘butterflies’.