OPENING A TERMITE MOUND
I shove a crooked stick in the crust
of the driest looking mound,
stirring ancient dust that stings my eyes.
No dead thing rises from this tomb:
life itself comes pouring out
cool and damp in tiny white packets,
guarding its treasure with pincers and riddles,
life that is older than dinosaurs
but will still be new when we are gone.
Published in Bealtaine
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