how green it was

you will want to remember
the tiny green inchworm, 
the same one your same son prayed over,
pressed to his third eye in Grand Marais 
maybe 4 or 5 July's ago over those roaring falls

And you will know it is the same one,
the same caterpillar remembering his phantom wings
when your son rescues him camouflaged between
greens form the garden in your metal mixing bowl
full of sunflower seeds, tomatoes, and freshly 
picked arugula, romaine, and some
other kind of growing green you planted and can't remember
like every summer you can never remember
like so many things you cannot remember
so you want to remember this inchworm, this boy
and the moment he was returned again and again back to his emeralds