BUG WEEK: In Which I Share A (Sort Of) Secret

When I was young, e'en to my eighteenth year

I had a weakness easy to play on:

For nothing in the world gave me such fear

As insects, in the house, out on the lawn,

Once memorably in a campground sink -

Saturniid, there, I picture in my head.

The merest sight would make me scream. You'd think

Me stabbed. Now, "phobia" was never said

Though surely it was thought, as I could stand

A dragon- or a butterfly all right.

By college time it was, though, out of hand

And Bard is a most buggy place at night.

My cure? I took a course and learned each part

An insect has, and thereby lost my heart.