a caterpillar inches along my windowsill.
thunder murmurs in the distance,
excited by the pattering of gray rain.
he is small and brown,
with lint stuck to his belly,
and it looks as if half of him is gone,
limping along the rotting wood.
i say, “i am just like you.
i am useless, helpless,
ugly and dirty.
i want to sleep and never wake.”
and he looks at me
and says, “yes, you are just like me.
you are tired now,
and agony stroked you in the palm of its hand.
but one day
both you and i will spin silver thread,
and we will fly.”
Poetry