The Gypsy Moth Caterpillar

I can't recall what age I was,

Just that which I aspired to be,

While looking up to older children-

Wiser, self-reliant, free.

I wished to play among them, from beneath the shade of plague filled trees.

The gypsy moth, they said it was ,

Who flew at night, their clutches laid,

In such abundance, none could thwart them,

flavor craved by none as prey.

I played among their wing-flap shadows amplified by porch-light rays.

And so, in early spring, it was,

Like boils, brown pouches broke and bled,

Releasing multitudes of vermin-

Mouths of millions to be fed.

And I, bemused, mistook their chews for rainfall patter overhead.

A storm of crawling flesh it was,

Beneath spiked fur, pink meat concealed,

With neither stingers, bites, nor venom,

Clog of bodies formed their shield.

As we both grew we viewed, through silk gauze canopies, the truth revealed.

So plain, laid-bare, the landscape was,

So desolate, the boughs of trees,

All greenery diseased and eaten,

Bright, stark sky where once grew leaves.

And in this light, I recognized cruel sacrifice born out of need.

So broken to the world, I was,

Like gossamer, suspended strands,

Which strain beneath the weight of gluttons,

'Till they fail from fat's demand,

Now stirred awake by selfishness and want I had become a man.