I dislike caterpillars.
They cling to fresh leaves,
as if coming from nowhere.
Crawling or curling up,
they seldom fear my coming near.
I must confess- I envy them:
Leisurely they nibble the green foliage
with an indifferent look.
I wish to get rid of them,
but I don't want to touch their droopy bodies.
With a stick, I fling them
one after the other into the air.
Where do they land? In the bushes or on the soil?
I don’t care.
“Good bye!” I wave to the little noodles.
Hot winds blow in the early summer.
I almost forget --
near my garden, under threads,
green and light cocoons dangle,
all wrap in silence.
So they doesn’t bother me,
and I let them be.
On the hottest morning when the air is still
a yellowish pouch drops and cracks.
Something trembles and unfolds.
All of a sudden, wings flutter
and take off.
I only catch a glimpse of a butterfly.
I want to call, “Wait.”
The empty crust rolls aside,
"Too late!” as if a sigh drops upon my own skin.
/
