The Ant

The somber insect's vast campaign, relentless, single-minded,
Ignoring Nature's wonders as it scurries, beauty-blinded;
It burrows deep inside it's world, to gather, shape and build,
It lives it's life unknowingly, and dies within its hill.

Never does it stop and pause, embrace the ocean's emerald shore,
Nor gaze upon a star-soaked sky, nor spy within its own soul's core;
It toils on, an automon, the next day as its last,
And suddenly it's time is spent, it's sand dropped through the glass.

How alien this species, and foreign to our ways,
We who treasure every moment, and delight in every day;
We who worship TV gods, stretched prostrate on the floor;
We who scramble to our jobs, like lemmings, through the streets we pour.

To catch Spring showers on your face, your lashes clean and wet,
To hold your father's weathered hand, his timeline's tablet;
To watch your daughter's first small step, her eyes bright and expectant,
To speed across a powdered slope, so crystalline reflectant.

To smell a rose, caress it's bloom, a fragrance Siren-sweet,
To play with puppies spotted, as they pounce upon your feet;
To revel in the one you love, to sway in moonlit nights,
To tremble in dark thunderstorms, cacophonies of light.

Do not lose sight, ye mortal men, of that which was Intended,
Not Midas' gold, nor Caesar's strength, through workdays long, unended;
But tasting life, immersed in all, an endless fascination,
For Life is more a golden journey, than a road sign destination.

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