WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I WERE A WORM?

“Jack?”

“Yes, Maisie?” he said, looking up from the grass.

Clouds drifted slowly like sheep as they passed.

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”

The breeze seemed to hush as the question took form.

Jack blinked once, then twice, caught off guard by the plea.

Clover lay scattered and bees hummed with glee.

“Why, Maisie, my dear, what a curious test!

Such a wriggly idea you’ve plucked from your chest.

Of course I would love you, in any form assigned,

if you were a worm, you’d still be mine.”

“That’s easy to say,” Maisie said with a grin.

“But I need you to prove it, go deeper within.

Don’t just say you would, tell me how and why,

or else your answer goes drifting right by.”

Jack lay on his back, watching clouds rearrange,

each one a reminder the world can be strange.

“Well, without words or singing or stories to tell,

how would I know it was you that I held?

You could wiggle and squirm in the dirt all you please,

but a worm cannot say, ‘Hey! It’s me!’”

Maisie scratched at her head, her answer undecided.

The question was a plight she hadn’t quite sighted.

“I’ll wear a scarf,” she said, brightening too,

“Striped lovely and bold in white and in blue!”

“What a clever way to set you apart!

A scarf’s quite a fashionable wormish start.

So, once I’ve found you, then what would I do?”

“That’s up to you,” she said. “I’m testing you.”

Jack tapped his chin. “I’d keep you nearby,

somewhere safe where the birds wouldn’t dare try.

A jar, maybe, just for a while?”

Maisie gasped. “A jar? That’s a terrible trial!

A worm needs the world, fresh soil, open air.

A jar is a prison. No worm would go there!”

“But how would I keep you from the birds overhead?”

Jack asked, thinking hard of the danger he dreads.

She sighed, shoulders slumping, her fire growing weak,

“Well… I’d rather not be an early bird’s treat.”

With a huff and a stomp and a frustrated kick,

Maisie asked, “Can I at least have some dirt? And maybe a stick?”

“I’ll get you the best dirt in town,

and I’m sure I can find some sticks lying around.

Sticks fit for castles, or ladders, or thrones,

Whatever a worm needs to feel more at home.

I’ll even poke holes in the lid, right on the top,

will this be enough to bring your game to a stop?”

Maisie thought of the jar with a thoughtful frown.

She watched a beetle crawl past on the ground.

“This shows you’d protect me, and that part is kind,

but would you still see me, or leave me behind?

A home made of glass feels quiet and small,

what if I miss you? What if I call?”

Jack brushed off his hands, then answered her slow,

“Love isn’t a thing that you trap or you stow.

It isn’t just safety or keeping you near,

it’s listening closely to what you most fear.

If you were a worm, I wouldn’t decide

that you needed my world when you had one outside.

I’d walk where you wander and wait where you stay,

I’d measure my steps so I don’t stand in your way.

I’d kneel in the dirt and learn how you roam,

I’d meet you halfway and call that our home.

I wouldn’t ask you to be less or be small,

I’d love you as you are, worm and all.”

Maisie smiled then, the test falling through,

the answer far gentler, and far more true.

She leaned against Jack as the daylight grew warm,

no longer worried about being a worm.

Because love, she learned, isn’t words that convince,

or jars, or proof, or reasons immense.

It’s staying, and seeing, and choosing again

no matter the shape that the world puts you in.