this poem is a flower / you are a flower
you are water / this poem is water
this poem is a bee / you are a bee
the more you tend them / they more they tend you

it must be acknowledged time is circular / fluid / flexible / wishywashygoodness / everflowing / open

in linear-time Little Caterpillar is perhaps the first “poem” this body ever connected with
there is no written record on paper
at the time ( in high school ) this was known to be a “villanelle” though researching the form closer to the “present” reveals them to be a “sestina“
both of these are highly structured forms originating in france

it is funny how ancestors reveal themselves in “hindsight”
though unknown at the time this human body is of french ancestry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Little Caterpillar

Once I saw a little caterpillar,
it was sitting upon a bright leaf,
munch munchy munch went the squirmy wormy.
Metamorphosis into butterfly,
all the pretty colors, like a rainbow.
On the wind you fly, and into my net.

Its wings so sparkly, flaking in my net.
Off its body, each leg is a column,
but they are bent, like an indian’s bow,
its eyes are green and bulbous, budding leaves.
I look around for friends for butterfly,
and in a tree, in the bark, a wormy.

Stuck in bark, stubborn little wormy,
poke at it with the handle of my net.
Oh poopsicles, there goes the butterfly,
stupid flybug, I spear it with a pole
but it is unharmed, and it flies away,
too bad I didn’t have arrows with bow.

Back to the wormy, it appears to bow,
I bow to my friend, I name him Wormy.
I love Wormy, by him I won’t be left.
He is slow, just in case, into my net.
But I am nice, I give it an apple,
the red reminds me of the butterfly.

Now I miss that stupid butterfly.
I imagine the bug in a ship’s bow,
has the time of its life, and an apple.
NO! in the dream, out of the apple, Wormy.
He smiles at me and produces my net
from his back pocket, and now the ship leaves.

Please ship, you have my friend, please do not leave!
I scream their names, Wormy and butterfly
and then, what ho! a face grows on that net,
a naked mole rat, it mocks me and bows.
It rears its ugly head, looks at Wormy,
and in one giant bite, eats that apple.

Oh caterpillar, and your blasted leaf,
From my net, into the sky, a rainbow,
the butterfly. And Wormy, WHERE’D YOU GO??!

—august sixteen twothousandzerohundredszerotensnine