Ants on dry stalks of grass
Their way to the next clump
Is to climb to the top of a blade
And slither down the back of it.
Perhaps they don't like the shortest route.
Perhaps they like to exercise their many legs,
Thin and bent like hairpins,
Carrying that heavy body.
The ants are not of one size;
Some have burdens on their heads.
I split a dry pod,
Tap out the shiny, hard seeds,
I take half a pod to a top-heavy ant.
The wriggler falls.
Retrieved, blocked and coaxed,
Wriggler falls off again.
I give up.
I'm neither Julian Huxley
Nor St. Francis of Assisi.
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Comments about this poem (Ants by Ananta Madhavan )
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