Metamorphosis
After viewing “Silk Moth” by Gail Morrison
As the silkworm’s sticky feet
tickle her open palm, she giggles,
a six-year-old transfixed.
Gently she pets its soft back,
returns it to the open box.
Each year, my students and I study insects,
watch as caterpillars harden into pupae,
their sheaths turn translucent,
and butterflies emerge.
We chant their life cycle like a mantra:
egg, larva, pupa, adult.
We release ladybugs, observe spiders
as they weave their miracle webs.
Do they understand the real lessons here,
about hope, perseverance,
the possibility of flight?
A small gift of wonder to children
swaddled from birth
in turmoil, gunfire, grief.
The stars of our insect unit are silk moths.
For weeks we feed the tiny worms,
discard mulberry stems, molted skins, waste.
Lay clean paper in the boxes, add new leaves,
monitor temperature, moisture.
We watch as they grow from black dots
to 3-inch wriggling white worms,
as they spin cocoons, pupate,
awaken to a new life,
mate, lay eggs, and—yes—die.
I don’t mention the fate of most silk worms--
how centuries of breeding
shortened their wings
so they can never fly.
How most never reach maturity,
how they’re boiled in their cocoons
to keep them from chewing free
of their prisons and spoiling the silk.
It seems cruel to tell my students.
They will learn soon enough
what the powerful do.
I want to tell them,
Learn from silk worms,
but don’t live like them--
boxed in, governed by other hands.
Don’t let the world use and discard you.
Don’t let them keep you earthbound.
In my deepest dreams,
these children spread their stardust wings
and launch themselves into
the stunned night sky,
beautiful beyond words,
and free.
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
After viewing “Silk Moth” by Gail Morrison
As the silkworm’s sticky feet
tickle her open palm, she giggles,
a six-year-old transfixed.
Gently she pets its soft back,
returns it to the open box.
Each year, my students and I study insects,
watch as caterpillars harden into pupae,
their sheaths turn translucent,
and butterflies emerge.
We chant their life cycle like a mantra:
egg, larva, pupa, adult.
We release ladybugs, observe spiders
as they weave their miracle webs.
Do they understand the real lessons here,
about hope, perseverance,
the possibility of flight?
A small gift of wonder to children
swaddled from birth
in turmoil, gunfire, grief.
The stars of our insect unit are silk moths.
For weeks we feed the tiny worms,
discard mulberry stems, molted skins, waste.
Lay clean paper in the boxes, add new leaves,
monitor temperature, moisture.
We watch as they grow from black dots
to 3-inch wriggling white worms,
as they spin cocoons, pupate,
awaken to a new life,
mate, lay eggs, and—yes—die.
I don’t mention the fate of most silk worms--
how centuries of breeding
shortened their wings
so they can never fly.
How most never reach maturity,
how they’re boiled in their cocoons
to keep them from chewing free
of their prisons and spoiling the silk.
It seems cruel to tell my students.
They will learn soon enough
what the powerful do.
I want to tell them,
Learn from silk worms,
but don’t live like them--
boxed in, governed by other hands.
Don’t let the world use and discard you.
Don’t let them keep you earthbound.
In my deepest dreams,
these children spread their stardust wings
and launch themselves into
the stunned night sky,
beautiful beyond words,
and free.
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
