High living sickens planet atmosphere,
ill winds blow, regular cycles disrupt;
whether or not to worry we debate.
Muscled politics pound the world’s mosaic,
mortars crumble under booted feet,
military maneuvers capture headlines.
But, at sunrise, birds still cheerfully warble
usual blue sky songs, and wild flowers riot
in demonstrations of compatible diversity.
Amazing industry, but can an ant refuse
to carry crumbs, or march for the colony?
May it choose not to satisfy a sadistic queen?
Carpenter ants ever decide boring wood
is boring? Do argentines long for Argentina?
Do only humans suffer such ideas?
Spiders begin work with a single line,
rhythm and meter weave across space,
silken instinct creates gossamer stanzas.
In my garden, positive actions bloom:
birds pleasantly call, ants tend to business,
and spiders spin hope into their poetry.