Caterpillars

This is what I remember:
Caterpillars
rolling
into a massive configuration
the size of a fist,
precariously tipping in the wind
the branch

bends.

Monarchs
she tells me
but I think differently
tiny kings
queens
with white
wings I say, imagining
the beautiful flutter
lifting
into the sunlight
against a backdrop
of black.

The thunder
builds into the afternoon, the hail
will sting
but my skin is waterproof, my father's voice
echoes truths, forgotten.
Is not every day outside
beautiful?

A fidgeting body
ascends.

The caterpillars
crush themselves
into the white fur
of one another
flush
against bark
writhing a
cocoon, something
bold enough to contain
all the beauty

to come.