*On the back porch 

in late summer I sit stunned 

beside my son Adam.

The porch is a hundred years old 

with new boards freshly 

painted sky blue.

Adam is eleven: lanky and curious, crouching

next to me like a monkey — mon petit singe —

but motionless.

Our first caterpillar chrysalis turned black 

last night, and we are nearly crying.

What was a jade green bulb 

with a golden crown 

that we protected, propped

up, prayed for — shrouded 

this morning: a lump of coal 

on a broken branch.

Is it dead? 

he asks.

Like a chaplain whisked through a curtain

and left in a hospital room I try to read 

the moment, searching for signs of 

death while rehearsing 

my calling: hope.

Let’s wait and see 

I answer.

And that is enough for him 

to dash into the day 

unencumbered.

A month ago, he dubbed 

this caterpillar Lucky 

and like the first Adam 

he has a knack for naming.