Most think the caterpillar bides its time,
anticipating eagerly the day
when it will shed its homely, hairy form
and magically sprout wings to fly away.

They picture it in holding pattern mode,
crawling on the ground, resigned to waiting,
ugly duckling of the insect world,
no purpose but for future life creating.

But I prefer to think this creature finds
enjoyment as it feeds among the leaves,
that when the sun's rays fall upon its face,
a fine appreciation it receives.

I've always found enchantment in its fuzz,
and hate to know we'll have to say goodbye
the day it sheds its current earthly shape
to transform into airborne butterfly.