Edmund Conti


Un Bel Di

Butterflies and moths remember their lives as caterpillars. —Harper’s

I well remember having all those feet.
I learned to walk at quite an early age.
Just one before the other; it was neat.
The trick was not to think; they would engage.

Oh life was lovely, lazy, eating leaves.
Avoiding, if one could, the birds above.
Sometimes a friend was snatched (one weeps, one grieves)
But new ones would appear and, with them, love.

That’s when I met the lissome, furry Katie
And fantasized our legs all wrapped together.
When I grew up I knew she’d be my matey,
Our legs entwined in caterpillar weather.

But she grew up to be a butterfly
And sad to tell you, readers, so did I.

Edmund Conti now lives in a senior complex where, for a change, he is not the oldest one in the crowd. Here he was encouraged to learn to dance the Paso Doble. Now his bucket list has been all checked off except, of course, for the Pulitzer Prize. (In poetry, preferably, but he’s not particular.)