When I was egg, I too, clung onto leaf
in shaded safety, hidden underside.
And fastened by a pinprick of belief
I dared to dream I was a butterfly.
A hunger hatched. I ate the home I knew
then inched along the disappearing green.
In shedding every skin that I outgrew,
became a hundred times the size I’d been.
And now I’m spinning silk to fix my spot.
Outside remains. Inside I’m changing things.
This caterpillar’s planning on the lot;
proboscis and antennae, four bright wings.
So keep on clinging on, my ovoid one.
For who you are has only just begun.