Tickling as it walks
the spider traverses my chestscape
as I lie upon the open lawn
in the sun.
Tiny and harmless,
I relish its movements.
And next to me, another friend:
It looks like it’s Red Ant
a-wandering.
Hello, Red Ant,
In the grass-forests rummaging,
how are things with you?
What’s new and how d’you do?
I like you Red Ant
You are solid and dependable.
I would almost let you climb up
and roam the sparse-haired savana
of my skin, as well;
but I know what you are like.
You would abuse the privilege,
with your spot of searing acid
spewed forth bravely;
a suicidal mission
against an enormous enemy.
You would take one for the team
unthinkingly.
Like the perfect soldier
undaunted in the face
of me, your world-filling foe.
Except I am not your foe,
little ant, not me,
I’m here to bask, not bite,
and so if I might, I’ll just lay
here beside you a little while
as you go about your industrious day.
I like to do this;
lie on the summer grass in the sun
lie prone, immobile, like a landscape feature,
insect-crossed and edificial
like a temperate Ayer’s Rock.
To the insects, and to the bugs,
And to the worms, as well,
I am a mountain,
or at least a significant
landscape feature.
But to the plane passing overhead
(and to the skies, to God)
I myself am the ant,
Sprawling and burning in the sun.
Ocksblog 
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