“Caterpillar” by Christina Rossetti

Were you a caterpillar kid? I know I was. Growing up in Michigan, I loved finding “wooly worms” in the fall. Their black and orange stripes stood out boldly against the dry, brown leaves, and I couldn’t wait to hold them, coiled up into a prickly ball, in the palm of my hand.

My daughter has followed in my creature-loving footsteps. No animal, no amphibian, and certainly no insect is safe from her attentive (read: smothering) love. Just yesterday she found a ladybug on her shirt. She was so happy to have a new pet that she made it a “havitat” (my favorite mispronunciation) with grass and a dish of water. She soon learned that ladybugs aren’t aquatic. I’m not sure why this surprised her, since I’d just gone to great lengths to explain that when ladybugs want a drink, they get it themselves and don’t require help.

After this devastating loss of a pet, she went hunting for a caterpillar to fill the void in her heart. She couldn’t find one and had to settle for trying to feed peanuts to a stink bug. But last night I came across a big, beautiful, black caterpillar in the grass, and my daughter was overjoyed. I made it a nice “havitat” (sans water), and today we’ll all spend some quality time together.

It turned out to be a giant leopard moth caterpillar—thick and spikey with rusty-orange bands on its skin. We had found one of the adult moths on our porch this summer, and it was gorgeous. We’d love to see more of these black-and-white-speckled beauties around the yard next summer, so we’ll let our new friend go free this afternoon. But in the meantime, my daughter will love it as much as any mother loves her newborn child. Maybe more.

So today, in light of this magnificent find, I wanted to share a short poem with you. It’s a little gem that we’ll memorize during homeschool this fall. It reads almost like a prayer of blessing over a fuzzy friend, and I hope it reminds you of your own caterpillar childhood.

Caterpillar

By Christina Rossetti

Brown and furry
Caterpillar in a hurry,
Take your walk
To the shady leaf, or stalk,
Or what not,
Which may be the chosen spot.
No toad spy you,
Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
Spin and die,
To live again a butterfly.