That bristled, cream-colored caterpillar
tractored onto the searing black asphalt,
unaware it could be scorched, or squished
by a passing car.

I scanned the nearby verge, cool and green
under a canopy of oak trees, found a sturdy
leaf, and gave the prickly creature a lift.

Placing it beneath a hedge of laurel atop
Pennsylvania soil rich and promising,
I recognized I too have wandered onto that
expanse of blistering tar.

Of slightly sturdier substance, I've survived
being singed. Perhaps more aware, I've 
avoided being squashed,

or was it a kindness, a word or gesture,
giving me a lift, giving me another chance
to become a butterfly.