A smudge on the sidewalk, a shadow.
Reminder of a life, of uncertainty, of death,
of sudden brilliance, blazing, burning
eradicating with violent breath.
The child skipped, played unaware
that the Norn had spun its fatal thread.
the child danced on the sidewalk
one moment aflutter, the next moment dead.
It was a caterpillar. No, a child
that stained the concrete's deathly gray
with its silhouette. The Norn had spun the thread
and placed the child in the shadow of Enola Gay.
Now it's just a black smudge
never from youth's cocoon to emerge,
the chrysalis to break, the wings to spread
to experience the joy, the thrill of life's urge.
I brush past a branch and notice
a fuzzy caterpillar, yellow and black
stretched out on a branch
unprepared for attack.
Yet instinct or some inborn sense
holds it still as the branch quivers.
leaves it helpless and vulnerable
to the unthinking blow my hand delivers.
a quick slap of my hand,
A twisting step with my boot
a shiny smudge darkens the grass
near the tree's twisted root.
One moment it was vital, alive,
beautiful, a butterfly as yet unborn
secure on its branch, its world.
Then, it was struck by the spinning Norn.
it had no awareness of the Norns'
design. In a flash it was but a blot
on the grass, a shadow that darkened
my soul but an instant - -
before I forgot.