An ant, the size of this 'l', walks carefully
the perimeter of my laptop, straying at whiles
onto the warm snow of the writing app, blinded,
struggling on. I pause with my finger over him.
I've killed them before, without thinking,
despite my Buddhist convictions.
They make your fingertip smell like rust.
A Buddhist when convenient, you might say, or
culturally Christian, instinctively American:
bugs are to kill. Or you can spiral into
an individual ant a sentient being? Surely
the hive is the sentient being? By which argument
my own status as unexpendable
is hardly beyond doubt. I pause again, then
lift my laptop, and blow. A mighty wind,
and the field of warm, dazzling,
inexplicable light vanishes. Falling
and falling, what whisper of consciousness
draws the eddying curves of his descent?
What flickers of fear or desire
Haunt his fall? I am the Lord your God
who brought you out of Egypt.
The sun falls warm on my skin,
And I glance up, blinking,
at the unexpected radiance of Spring.
In response to this Morning Porch post.