Consuming green succulent leaves.
Until our bodies are round and green and fat.
The yellow spots hiding our presence amongst the lush foliage of trees reaching for the sun.
Eventually sticky goo spewing from our mouths, fashioned into delicate thread, with which we spin and spin and spin.
We are enveloped in our tiny cocoon.
To be transformed.
Carrying in us the design, to become, through our consumption and spewing and spinning.
Something even more exquisite than the uncomfortable little worm we are as time holds us prisoner.
The cocoon inevitable.
For us all.
The recreation destined.
For the One from Whom we come, does not abandon.
The Origin of the tree and the leaves, of the worm and its delicate thread, of the creation and our recreation, is.
And will be.
The Origin, the Source and Sourceror, Who gives the leaves and the gooey spittle, which becomes ethereal theme.
Never left to our own devices.
Never at the grace of gracelessness.
Our alpha without omega.
As our Origin is without boundary.
We, from Them.
Even now, contriving and contriving our glistening filament.
All of it beautiful.
Through the gift of They who is and was and will always be our inception and our immutability.
Ours, without being owned by us, but breathing into being, we who are Their precious possession.
Relieved that I am possessed.
Even as I am the lazy little green caterpillar.