Mar 292015

by Diane Webster


I want to be a butterfly,

but I am a caterpillar.

I wish for stained-glass wings

to fly over this grass-infested field.

I wish for wind to tickle my belly;

I wish for my photo to adorn

a gallery wall where someone thinks

I’m worth $100 and a trip home.

But I am a caterpillar

steadily trudging my trail

between dandelion blooms

that eventually fluff and seed

near and far away grounds

between rocks and grass and last year’s

decaying aspen leaves.

I bask on a branch hoping the urge

to spin a life-changing cocoon might

hit me like a dream behind dozing eyes

and when I wake, my green unfurls

a kaleidoscopic gown fit for flight,

but I crawl, crawl, crawl

a caterpillar with a mission, a destination

she doesn’t know the end of yet.