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.