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Click hereI watch little black ants
in a busy line
crumbs like boulders.
They shape their vision of the world
like goliaths,
and yet their lives are fragile.
I lift one on my fingertip.
So crushable,
I almost kill it.
A benevolent ant god
I set it back on the path
into the sun, out of the sun
across sticks and leaves on the ground.
I look up through the branches of the tree sheltering me
at the pale egg blue
of the sky.
Who’s fingertip do I rest on?
How benevolent are my Gods?
Will I be set back on my path
or crushed on casual whim?
It's not a new thought, but it is one I was having as thousands of others have.
Maybe I should move to Canada?
;P
I like this one, but for me this borders on the boys conversation-- I have heard this question before, but you the poet put it so beautifully that it is just fine :)