The first hot April day the granite step
was warm. Flies droned in the grass.
When a car went past they rose
in unison, then dropped back down. . . .
I saw that a yellow crocus bud had pierced
a dead oak leaf, then opened wide. How strong
its appetite for the luxury of the sun!
Everyone longs for love’s tense joy and red delights.
And then I spied an ant
dragging a ragged, disembodied wing
up the warm brick walk. It must have been
the Methodist in me that leaned forward,
preceded by my shadow, to put a twig just where
the ant was struggling with its own desire.
2 comments:
Junebug wants to know why she wasn't your daily snap and that sticks are, in her opinion, far more meditative than poems.
Junebug should have been the daily snap since she snaps sticks with such abandon. Please apologize to her for me.
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