Sonnet CXVII

I’ve seen a caterpillar on a chair.
Its bristly body on the fabric plane.
Outside the wind is cruel; he shivers there,
the life out on the porch, his cruel disdain.

And yet I find I’m jealous. How he dares
to live a life of sad and dull refrains,
the frozen leaves his measly, frigid fare,
the substance of his life, his soaring pain.

And though the autumn winds may rage and howl,
his life withstands all tests of nature’s whip.
Though some may see his life as cruel and foul,
I almost cherish it and hope for it.
For joy is not a bliss life does allow,
but every stolen one comes as a gift.