14.4.10

Poem 45

It has gotten so that every time I pick up
A book, cup or pair of shoes
I expect the scattering swarm of small insects.
Too much time in the garden I know
Overturning rocks then jumping back at first
In horror, then stepping closer in a morbid curiosity
Not to spray these futuristic looking ancient creatures
But to check my gloves my shoes my hair
It is enough to frighten the weaker bipeds
But not me at least not now 
While I dig and push & pull
Like the relentless invader I have become.
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