Here we see the popcorn beetle.
In its state, of cocoon, fetal.
As a small larva it crept here,
On this flat, black stone or bier.
Now it’s waiting for the sun to come out,
It’s very certain, there’s no doubt,
Their forecasts are better than ours,
Usually accurate to halves of hours.
Its cocoon, shaped like a kernel,
Thrives in heat, likes it infernal.
Warming up enough, in the afternoon,
We hear a pop and the cocoon is strewn.
A popcorn beetle resting on the stone,
Waving its wings colored cream and bone.
It’s amber head swaying in the warm breeze,
It flies through a copse of trees,
Trying to find its food, butter,
Hungrier and hungrier with every single flutter.
It flew out of sight, oh well,
We can see it coming again, or smell.