A caterpillar slithers alongside the weeping willow.

As autumn transforms to winter, the leaves drop

and flow to the ground one by one. The caterpillar

nibbles micro bites of delicate leaves as it grows

and awaits its fresh start— while the birds

migrate south, and the bats, snakes, and squirrels

begin to hibernate. Now the only thing green

in that aged willow tree is the caterpillar.

He tickles the willow tree’s trunk with the stroke

of each leg and the push of each slug as he

journey’s from branch to branch, desperate for

a chance. No competition but the strength

of the precipitation, preys on the caterpillar’s

feathered body. Its coat of fuzz protects him

from the gusts of wind that whistles a song

of despair. Nothing but the brittle branches

hear him, for they are all that are there.

He freezes with the raindrops and hangs on

to the last trembling leaf. He and that willow,

pray that spring’s morning sun is near.