Bare Branches
It’s fall. I know this because
the ants have stopped coming into my kitchen.
No more earnest invaders case the joint for spills and spatters
as they hatch a plot to drive me mad.
Victory,
late in the game,
is mine.
The ants have marched off
to wherever it is that ants go for winter.
Dead, or dormant, I know not, and do not care.
Yet I imagine them…
gathered deep in the earth…
their ant faces wrinkled and heavy with beard:
Together,
and each of them,
recalling kitchen glory days.
The melted popsicle puddles.
The cookie crumbs.
And all the bright sunshine
that came
before fall.
Friday, October 15, 2010
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5 comments:
I'll tell you where the ants go in the winter: my place! Every January we get invaded. This year ... I'll be waiting for them ... they should be afraid ... very afraid!
Enjoyed reading your ant poem. I prefer NOT to think about ants during the cold days of winter. We start seeing them at our house around about May every year.
That last comment wasn't posted by Mike--but by Elaine of Wild Rose Reader. I'm using my husband's computer at the moment
ants with beards!
Love the poem. :-)
Bianca, Elaine, Lori -- thanks! My poetry muscles are stiff lately, but these ants were calling to me...
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