The Anthill

We walk with nervous wonder,

Fingers twitching and picking leaves instead,

Surrounded by trees as ghosts of former flames

Dance near us with the sunlight,

Not lovers yet

But lips fresh pressed.

*

Eyes are windows to your soul, they say

It must be so because we cannot make them meet for long

They run away should their paths cross,

In all directions they can find

It’s early yet to be so naked as we walk,

Distracted as we are.

*

And I am glad we’re serenaded by the wind,

The babble of words a brook,

Distant voices make a spacious wood feel crowded,

And so we walk away from sounds whenever paths diverge.

*

A bench presents its invitation

Rigid and polite,

We sigh and let the sound seep into silence.

*

But silence is now not our guest,

A rushing greets our ears,

Like water but not

And hard to place,

Until we're looking down

*

Thousands of proud soldiers, with helmets shining,

Keenly carrying this and that

In elegant formation,

The anthill is alive

*

A heaving, breathing, moving thing

That doesn’t stop or wait for human eyes,

Human agendas would be shredded here like all the rest.

I’d never seen one in my life,

And both our windows opened wide,

So that I knew,

For him, the same was true.