Glossy blue-black wasp,
sharp as a carpet tack,
tapping along in little forays,
assessing the vulnerability
of my wooden eaves.
A rose, rose, rose
by any other name would
taste as sweet -
say the Japanese beetles,
turning red petals to lace,
As a boy, I squatted above
their metropolis, studied the furious
comings and goings, awed
by the ants' strict decorum,
their single-minded devotion
to labor's intricacies.
When mother called for dinner,
I was oblivious, enthralled
(it's taken me all these years to see)
by the gift of this infinitesimal universe,
by this flickering glimpse of the infinite.
Sitting, lakeside, so still, so long -
the buzzing filled the interstices
in my memory until
I could no longer tell if
the far-off voice was
the bees' or yours.
A gnat no bigger
than this 10-point dotted ``i''
drops onto the vastness of my notebook page.
But I am engaged in writing and,
without a second thought,
the coming line propels the pen,
barges across the white expanse
and banishes the bug
from the bug poem.
Like the June bugs at night
at the window screen,
wanting in, hungry for the little light -
words too have a mind of their own,
frantic at the wire mesh of the poem,
wanting more than meaning,
wanting to converse with the unbridled dark,
free of my surveillance,