The caterpillars climb up high
to make a chrysalis.
They slowly knit,
they never quit,
until they make it fit.
As butterflies begin to fly,
they flutter in the breeze.
They flit and flee
around each tree,
each flower, bud and me.
Yet sometimes plans will go astray,
and transformations fail.
Poor wrinkled things,
with dark wet strings,
and withered soggy wings.
But Mother Nature marches on.
The sun will rise again.
More butterflies
will soar and rise
and float up in the skies.
a pinch of homestead 