I know I am an uninvited guest;
From birth I eat my fill of what you’ve sown.
How well I wear the moniker of “pest;”
Yet I hate what I am more than you’ve known.
I’m green or brown, with ample legs to spare;
Your garden is my happy hunting ground.
My goal is not to leave your garden bare,
Though I’m aware how hollow that must sound.
A worm with legs, antennae, appetite,
Consumed with food, by food, perhaps as food.
But on this day I’ll take my final bite
And die alone, in sacred solitude.
I’m still and silent, shrouded in the black
Of what I know to be my final days.
My body starts to wither, shrivel, crack—
Yet I feel nothing as my form decays.
Then suddenly my coffin can’t contain
My desiccated flesh a moment more;
It’s rent from inside out—yet I remain
Alive, but not the way I was before.
Then light assaults my dark-familiar eye;
I crawl outside—surprised I did not die;
Unfold my wings, and leap to meet the sky:
A worm no more. I am a butterfly.