Sonnet CCCXXIV

This caterpillar never learns to crawl,

but quivers from a tree branch, scorned by all.

It hangs to ripen with the rain and sun,

until its skin is soft and hue is dun.

This brooch of precious pearls and ruby gems

is now the butterfly upon each stem.

It’s only till we taste them that we know

that they yet to darken and to grow.

The darkest ones, as black as charcoal ink

are unmistakable as night itself.

Their violet innards stain our fingertips,

collapsing at our touch into themselves.

Around the berry tree we dance around –

to pluck the jewels to pop into our mouths!