Lying amongst the greenest blades on the block,
The hidden lawn, the one on sloped ground leading to the stream,
I wonder if bugs are marching between the pale hairs of my arm.
Those little friends I know must be around
Conducting their business, as usual.
A careless turn at any moment under
The warmth of the sun could end
A day’s work along with the little body
Holding up a crumb like Atlas
Carrying the weight of his world.
I look up at the sky and think
What does it mean to be
Hefty like the ant,
To carry a burden without concern
For this weighty world,
And how many turns are left?
If I crush an ant with my freckle-arm
Or my denim-clad backside,
Will it be mourned
Will it feel a thing