Since that first morning when I crawled <br />into the world, a naked grubby thing, <br />and found the world unkind, <br />my dearest faith has been that this <br />is but a trial: I shall be changed. <br />In my imaginings I have already spent <br />my brooding winter underground, <br />unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed <br />into the air, free as a puff of cloud <br />to sail over the steaming fields, <br />alighting anywhere I pleased, <br />thrusting into deep tubular flowers. <br /> <br />It is not so: there may be nectar <br />in those cups, but not for me. <br />All day, all night, I carry on my back <br />embedded in my flesh, two rows <br />of little white cocoons, <br />so neatly stacked <br />they look like eggs in a crate. <br />And I am eaten half away. <br /> <br />If I can gather strength enough <br />I'll try to burrow under a stone <br />and spin myself a purse <br />in which to sleep away the cold; <br />though when the sun kisses the earth <br />again, I know I won't be there. <br />Instead, out of my chrysalis <br />will break, like robbers from a tomb, <br />a swarm of parasitic flies, <br />leaving my wasted husk behind. <br /> <br />Sir, you with the red snippers <br />in your hand, hovering over me, <br />casting your shadow, I greet you, <br />whether you come as an angel of death <br />or of mercy. But tell me, <br />before you choose to slice me in two: <br />Who can understand the ways <br />of the Great Worm in the Sky?<br /><br />Stanley Kunitz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hornworm-autumn-lamentation/
