THE ORPHAN AND THE CATERPILLAR
And so, beneath the jagged arm of spruce,
I’ll write a charm to bless the caterpillars,
coax them from their intricate huts of bark
and frond hammocks; it is for them today
that the fishbone clouds converge to form wings —
not those of a ghostly moth or grimacing owl,
but the spotted orange of ilk and elders, a gesture
of change for these infants — these dozers in dappled sun.
Under cobalt miles, tissued pinafores beckon
from their amazing height, whirling to a crux:
We’re always following something, even I,
applying a sky’s meager blue to the black gift
of my ink, the oil-like fluid that deems me
the orphan of something purely unacceptable.