[Julie Steiner]

If uninvited arachnids wish to colonize this thread, Dickinson's poem above states eloquently that I can't do much about it. (Which reminds me--scorpions are arachnids, too, and there are several wonderful poems about them.)

But to return to insects...their metamorphosis is often given spiritual connotations, so Stanley Kunitz's "Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation" might be taken as someone's reluctant acceptance of the idea that there will be no transformation after death. (In fact, I found the poem text--you'll need to scroll down to it--on an atheistic website.) But I prefer to think of this poem as a very accurate description of what it feels like when family and work obligations are sucking the very life out of me, and robbing me of the time and energy to indulge in apparently selfish (but transformative) activities like my poetry and music.

Thanks, all, for your contributions. I'm really enjoying them.