Petite
the tiniest of watercolors
by a man called Ernst
transformed me into a caterpillar
dreaming of erstwhile flight.
my wings are powder-blue
like the cloudless sky:
I crisscross continents
ever on the fly.
I don't know what I eat
-perhaps nutrition is born and bred-
(not the cowdung that would make me retch) ,
maybe it's nutrients from the air I fetch.
I alight in a predetermined tree
and chew bloated leaves-
one summer passes,
and then I leave for good.
some super-being, or the earth herself
understands.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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