I want to come back 

to that lone garden caterpillar, 

flexing its patterned appendages in the light 

of the newly rising sun, which, shaded by 

the early morning clouds, conveys a tint 

of dusty yellow onto the leaf that sags with

the weight of the waking crawler. 

And its bulbous head, indistinguishable 

from its tail until it stretches its neck 

toward that ever-glistening, glowing 

dewdrop, balanced on the emerald stalk 

of grass that points skyward as if dreaming 

of tasting the wind. The dew drop begs to be

indulged, and the caterpillar answers its plea, 

crossing the distance and stretching 

its feeble limbs to connect with 

the blade, which sways once, twice,

before falling docile in allowance for 

the caterpillar to dunk its head in the cool, 

clear sphere without thinking 

without even perceiving 

how perfect it is.