Lying amongst the greenest blades on the block,

The hidden lawn, the one on sloped ground leading to the stream, 

I wonder if bugs are marching between the pale hairs of my arm. 

 

Those little friends I know must be around

Conducting their business, as usual. 

A careless turn at any moment under

The warmth of the sun could end

A day’s work along with the little body 

Holding up a crumb like Atlas

Carrying the weight of his world. 

 

I look up at the sky and think 

What does it mean to be 

Hefty like the ant,

To carry a burden without concern 

For this weighty world,

And how many turns are left?

 

If I crush an ant with my freckle-arm 

Or my denim-clad backside, 

Will it be mourned 

Will it feel a thing

 

Will I?