IN THE SHADOW OF THIS
The ant in
the shadow of this blade of grass
to my presence, to the action
Of the day,
to the creaking of the limbs
Of the sycamore,
to the sun lowering itself
the scaffolding of the sky.
In the choir
loft formed by the coreopsis
midges are absorbed in a requiem Mass.
It is the
death of summer. Consciousness is divine.
Jeff and Julie
have been painting the house
is a perfect star of Kashmir green paint
On the cracked
concrete expanse of the driveway.
The ant has
not moved. It is deep in meditation.
can't help but move. The light spreads
As it lengthens.
There is a clear reason why poetry
Is an escape
from pain. A poem is an extension of
consciousness. The ant's soul is composed
acid. It lives in a world of roots and jaws.
It has a keen
olfactory sense. It is indifferent
To the sole
of my running shoe, to my frayed shoelace,
To my shadow
on the grass. Who decreed that on this planet
thing would absorb energy by eating every other
Midges are pure energy. The rays of the sun
them. Each thistle cone of the coreopsis
in the light like a crown. Jeff and Julie
on his Harley, green paint on their faces.
smiling. The crowns of the coreopsis nod.
I think, therefore
I am divine. Would you call this a poem?
insists upon twenty-four months of silence
dare call yourself a poet. Ants understand
of undefiled silence. My ant glows
now in the lengthening rays of the sun.
I kneel and
whisper, "Look up at me. I'm here."
© by John