The Caterpillar Who Wanted to Be a Flower

The Caterpillar Who Wanted to Be a Flower

by Michael Espinoza



Flowers take root and they grow into beautiful plants.
They blossom into many colors, for fine decoration.
While seeds aren't beautiful, each one is given the chance
To grow into rose, tulip, pansy, or even carnation.

He wanted to be a fine flower, but that could not be.
They all told him he was no seed, so he'd better forget it.
A small caterpillar was what he was, ugly to see.
But he would have destiny lovely, if only he'd let it.

He envied the flowers--why couldn't he take root and grow?
Why was a fine blossom beyond his reach?  It wasn't fair.
He thought about all of the flower kinds that he did know,
Not only the common, but also exotic and rare.

He thought that he wanted to be first one kind, then another,
And then to be hybrid of all the most beautiful kind.
He didn't feel comfortable telling this to his mother,
Especially since he just couldn't yet make up his mind.

He loved many flowers, but each one had flaws that he saw.
Too big, or too small, or else lacking in colors enough.
And just when he thought that he had it, a dealbreaking flaw
Presented itself, so he thought about alternate stuff.

And all that he did in the meanwhile was eat and stay there.
He hated depending on others to get himself food.
If he were a flower, he'd make his own food from the air,
And the soil and the sunlight, and water--that brightened his mood.

But he was no flower--he needed to eat and to eat,
And he was no beauty to look at, no more than a worm.
He didn't get anywhere, even with myriad feet.
He felt like a pestilence, vermin--he felt like a germ.

The more that he thought about what kind of flower to be,
The more that he thought that there was no such kind upon earth.
He realized his thoughts led to flitting from flower to tree,
A butterfly, what he was meant to be ever since birth.

But what was so special about being small butterfly?
They had no roots, couldn't grow taller like flowers--oh no.
The world was not made for the butterflies fluttering by,
But flowers, who take their root somewhere and start thence to grow.

Why couldn't, at least, he be flower before butterfly?
If only, if only--now trapped in his skin did he feel.
He locked himself into his chrysalis, starting to cry,
Just stuck in one place, till the day his cocoon starts to peel.

Can a small caterpillar who's ugly have destiny grand?
Will he make any friends who will help him his true self to be?
Is there hope that he might have existence that isn't so bland,
Isn't stuck to the underside of this small branch of his tree?