If a butterfly decided
that it wanted to be a caterpillar
that it regretted its metamorphosis
that it would trade its powdery winged symmetry
for a few more hours or days of blind gluttony
arboreal mastication
that it did not want to flutter gracefully
admired desired
but to slowly gelatinously contract 
precariously 
along rough barked branch
to be more slug than swallow
more mundane than monarch
would I advise motivate inspire
pointing to the obvious
benefits of butterflying
the sunshine and light
the peaceful flower perch
the sweet nectar 
devoid of the bitterness 
of aged leaf
the security in the knowledge 
of avian indigestability
or accept
that the desire to stay exactly the same
to trade the trinkets of success
for the security of sameness
to be not part of the painted ladies or silver admirals
but simply to be alone and unknown
to Thoreau it all away
is as much a part of chrysalisian philosophy
as it is of all who want
to celebrate the simple
crawl of the caterpillar