Monday, August 10, 2015

The Small Stuff to Sweat

The Ant made its way across
the concrete.
I didn’t want to step on it.
I hate stepping on ants when
they are outside doing their
Ant thing.

It seems wrong to absently or
accidentally end their
little worlds just because I
wasn’t watching where I was going.
It seems so in-compassionate.

There’s the Ant, just going along,
working for the rest of the colony,
and suddenly, WHAM, stepped on
and up to Ant heaven to be judged
at the pearly Ant Hill by Ant St. Peter.

I always seem to notice the Ants
as I walk and I really don’t want
to step on them. I want them to go
on and do what they have to do,
just like I don’t want to get stomped.

I think I developed this compassion,
after the early days of playing with
a magnifying glass and being the
unholy tormentor of those poor
hapless Ants. It was shameful.

My religion probably added to my
feelings for the Ant, since there are
times that we all feel like mere Ants
on this big ball of dirt in a vast
and scary void of space.  

I try and avoid the Ants in their
domain. They deserve their existence
just like I think I deserve mine. Unfettered,
un-squashed, unmolested by soles.
Just trying to make it to the other side
of the sidewalk, on another summer


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