Aurelian

This weekend has come to an end far too quickly, and I am rather dismayed. But I suppose, as with all things, I will get through it. DVerse was asking for work that deals with growing up and caterpillars and change and all kinds of things. In fact, a couple months ago I wrote a little musing poem about moths, which never saw the light of day, that was specifically about adolescence and change and all that. Serendipity! So, I thought I might as well toss that out there as my offering for the prompt, and then go weep for the upcoming week. Ugh.

Also, “aurelian” is an archaic word for a butterfly-watcher/collector (also called a lepidopterist). So cool.

Aurelian

I have saved the better part of my envy
for the polyphemus moth, who grows from
beauty to beauty without even noticing;
but in an easy pocket I also keep

sugarcubes of mercy. Now and then
your path is crossed by bigmouth caterpillars
bursting through their own lime-green shoulders
with adolescence. Remember your own

and take pity, escort them to the overhanging
rhododendron or the potted fern. Who never
wanted a palm to lift their young dozens of
ungainly feet? And who never saw their own

angularity in the mirror, gave themselves a name
bitter to the taste? Carried caterpillars bristle
with thanks. Good fortune is when we find
something we can destroy, and we choose

not to. The polyphemus moth is a redhead prince
trapped in his armor, a crack-voiced spirit of leaves
and shapes that scatter underfoot at night, but
two months from now, he will tap furred wings

against the glass. You must open the window
so he can die his blessing. I have painted
all my envy onto the back of this moth,
two round purple spots on brown velveteen:

but the youths nod great heads with forgiveness,
caroling around town. If you catch one, let him
lay his body across your palm. Then release it,
like you do the idea of yourself as a child

when you have climbed out of a hard dun
coffin, and turned to see there’s nobody there.

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