Great Worm in the Sky

Stanley Kunitz died last week. He was a poet and a gardener, and he was super old. He mostly wrote about his garden and changes and death. His poems aren't as bleak as global warming energy crisis animal extinction, which is what I think about the rest of the time, and which gets old anyway--he probably couldn't have written 80 years' worth of poetry about government mismanagement of forests. He wrote about small things in his garden, and he wasn't totally neurotic and doomsday-oriented.
This is a by him. A hornworm is the larva of the hawk moth. Is this OK? To put a poem on here?

Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation

Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
is but a trial: I shall be changed.
In my imaginings I have already spent
my brooding winter underground,
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed
into the air, free as a puff of cloud
to sail over the steaming fields,
alighting anywhere I pleased,
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.

It is not so: there may be nectar
in those cups, but not for me.
All day, all night, I carry on my back
embedded in my flesh, two rows
of little white cocoons,
so neatly stacked
they look like eggs in a crate.
And I am eaten half away.

If I can gather strength enough
I'll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myelf a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won't be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.

Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you comes as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?