Petite Poem by Stan Petrovich

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.