sonnet of a caterpillar

and we would frolic in cherry cola scented rain 
jump into murky grey puddles and clogged storm drains
smashing wet cigarette butts with sparkly pink boots
clutching onto your thumb as i skipped on home

and shrieking at the maniacal spurts of lightning outside
as we scrambled under quilted blankets seeking shelter
clutching onto a fluttering flashlight and as we counted 1, 2, 3, 4
waiting for the next cackle of thunder in the distance to come

and plucking a flower off the jasmine vine of a nearby house
shoving petals into pockets with taffy covered fingers
only to be scattered along the washing machine a week later,
for you to say, Bug, what have you done this time?

so now i trace my flourishing wings over fading scribbles and attempts at writing the letter “g”
and twirling round teal glasses in my hands. God i miss being three

— Ellie Hill