Poetry in Narrative.

Diamond in the rough.

Diamond in the rough.

"Born to this day", the caterpillar exclaims.

"To this world, this life, this silly little game.

I will become beautiful one day, I will fly away.

My gift is in this ability to change...

From the ground to top, inch by inch it roams,

"I love this lofty tree, I think I'll call it home".

The tree shakes, not one but, all of its leaves;

and yet, the caterpillar only loves what it sees...

A marvelous Maple, with branches firm and strong,

reluctantly it lets the caterpillar sing its simple song.

Whistling in the wind, while it spins and spins,

when the maple tries to shake it loose again...

"You don't belong here on my branch," says the tree,

but the caterpillar doesn't listen or even care to see.

All it sees is a place to rest its tired body down.

Way up high with its gorgeous view; it is Bound...

Slowly it nestles into a tightly spun bed all alone.

Then gives thanks to the tree for it's temporary home.

It lies down inside hiding itself from the heated day;

and this is all it takes for one to change its way...

Asleep in its abode that caterpillar dreams;

far away from harm, atop that lofty tree.

Dreaming of promises; of a lifetime outgrown.

Gone, but not forgotten, empty seeds never sown...

Nothing lasts forever except that desire in the soul.

Stormy weather aside, that maple holds all control.

With the wind parting its leaves, it twists and turns.

In spite of the shaking; a metamorphosis accures...

Long live a diamond in the rough, changing up high.

Struggling every inch of the way; nothing ever dies.

Change listened to is studied before it's considered true.

You may think of things as stories but, with poetry

there are always those hidden clues...

Little feet scratching what was once a warm soft bed.

One antenna, then two, then out pops a tiny little head.

Slowly it crawls free of its own prison to face the crowd.

And that maple shakes its leaves, silently but, proud...

It kept that caterpillar safe, through day, and night.

And never gave up because it saw its fight.

Watching its colors dance gracefully as it flies,

that maple whispers farewell, not goodbye.

A.o.R.