7/8/19
Will it become a butterfly or a moth? Butterfly season is over. Today it’s just a caterpillar. Looks like a grub. It wriggles on the patio floor, while I drink my morning latte, and Darwin pants beside me, finally satisfied because the barista gave him his expected treat. He started to snap at her when she tried to pet him. I explained away his condition. PTSD for dogs. It’s a thing.
The caterpillar wriggles on the floor. And I think Katherine Hepburn was right, in “Suddenly last summer,” when she describes nature as a heartless beast. What chance does this helpless creature struggling on its back have to survive the morning without being stepped on or eaten? Will it ever become a moth, or a butterfly?
Could something so beautiful emerge from this wretchedness? And what if it becomes a moth? Will it eat my sweaters? Will it be irresistibly drawn to luminescence? Will it die like Icarus in a porch light? Moths are like butterflies in pastel colors and earth tones with nocturnal appetites. They do not pollenate, but are never the less, beautiful, in a mysterious, almost melancholy way.
Next stop, walking home And thinking about the woman in line at the coffee shop, who couldn’t believe it when I told her Darwin bights. “He seems so sweet!” He is, but he bights. He’s old. He’s confused. He has PTSD. Like me. I didn’t say that…
Reminding myself that no is a complete sentence, I see a site that is a story
Unto itself on the horizon ahead. A toilet seat supporter for the elderly and disabled, abandoned on the sidewalk. Reminds of Hemmingway’s Shortest story ever told,
“For sale: baby shoes never worn.”
It’s a beautiful day. Granite peaks look like the hills are alive With the sound of music. Where is Julie Andrews now? Almost home. A homeless man Rooting through the garbage. Katherine Hepburn was right. Sebastian won’t be writing poetry today.
But I can.
I come home thinking, “Once I was a caterpillar…” Now I don’t know if I’m a moth
or a butterfly, But I’ve got wings in my fingers, And I can fly.
Comments