The frost before the dawn

Before summer must come autumn,

winter and spring. And so it goes—

through each rolodex rotation

of seasons fluttering brittle-

veined leaf wings through the ages.

Spring’s blooming flush of youth

matures into the heat of a hot tamale

summer, all curves and heels and fire

engine-red lips. Then comes autumn—

and this, Dear Reader, is where

we pause for this poem to incubate.

.

The plump autumnal caterpillar ripe

for metamorphosis munches

their way through a smorgasbord

of cake, pickles, ice cream, sausages,

Swiss cheese, lollipops, watermelon

and more (things a caterpillar oughtn’t

be indulging in, really). No wonder

they get a stomach ache! Immortalised

for wanting too much. Spindly legs

and the curvature of their limber back

bristle with nettles thick and wiry

as an old shoe-shine brush. Run

your fingers over their fuzz and being

the prick they are, they’ll sting you.

They have more grit than you realise.

.

Elms begin shedding their jagged-

tipped leaves like old men losing

their crowning glory, one fading

wisp at a time. They are emasculated

Samson-like in their twilight years.

The air cools and thins as a southerly

breeze swirls umber hunch-backed

leaves in a kaleidoscopic dance

of mid-air chestnut and cinnamon.

.

Firs begin getting frosty-tipped

with icicles, their citrus-scented

needles snap frozen. Children

snug as cocooned bugs in knitted

woollen coats, beanies, and mittens

collect fallen pinecones, rescued

into the warmth of their homes

where some will later be painted

in silver and gold, and placed

on hearths, mantlepieces, and

centrepieces on tables alongside

candles, eucalyptus, nuts, and dried

oranges. Outside, chatter becomes

a visible language of smoke-

signalled mist and breath. And our

caterpillar—remember them?—begins

their painful process of change.

This is no ordinary transformation.

Their metamorphosis by necessity

involves the dissolution of ego and

identity, the loss and renewal of their

very self. Dear Reader, look away now

if you are prone to squeamishness, for

this next part is not for the faint of heart.

.

It takes a certain bravery to reduce

oneself into a gloopy puddle. But

this is precisely what our caterpillar does.

They liquefy themselves into a nutrient

soup of molten enzymes. Muscles, organs,

and tissues deliquesce into cell cluster

blueprints of the butterfly they will become.

Straining inside the straitjacket of a chrysalis,

new limbs develop, bulging against the shell.

If one listened with a stethoscope, one might

hear the scritch and stretch and groan of growth.

It does not come easy. Autumnal change

gives way to the incubation of winter.

Dear Reader, the caterpillar is you.

Change may crucify, but a hot

Nymphalidae summer awaits you.

And so it goes. And so it goes.