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The Little Caterpillar
The little caterpillar, under my window,
he crawls and crawls until he reaches, the point at which his heart beseeches.
He travels quickly along the narrow pane,
lest he meet the driving rain.
His little movements so swift and neat,
for he has such teeny tiny little yellow feet.
So fleet, precise, and without err, as if he is completely unaware,
that I am watching him with content stare.
For I believe that he is happy,
crawling along my window pane so speedily and unto the tree with its golden summer timbers so fresh and sappy.
It is a simple life he leads;
Upon the leaves he feeds.
With no hustle or bustle or commotion, where the only traffic are the birds and the bees.
Simply nested in his modest home amidst the trees,
awaiting the warm summer’s day, where he shall become a lovely cocoon.
Much unlike humans, with our silly thoughts and funny things, like cars and diamond rings. For I am sure that he must think that I am a loon,
for watching him so intently, and wishing that I was not to this entity to which I am maroon.
For I wish that I could be truly free like the little caterpillar in that tree.
Who once crawled across my window pane.
Unmeeting the driving rain, with movements oh so swift and neat, as he crawled upon those tiny yellow feet.
For there is no one that I would rather meet, than a tiny caterpillar, oh so sweet.