His home was on a hill, one felt
It overlooked the stars, to us
It seemed a tent, something different,
But to the man who lived there,
It was we who moved, not he,
We would see lights twinkling there,
And now they shine down to the quay.
The ants carry seeds in wavering lines,
They read the pheromone trail, a suffuse
Beautiful script across the sacred
Soil, which surrounds the roots of the red spruce,
It grows as it grows, there is no hint
Of self-reflection, of separation
From the sky, from the sun,
The crickets sing their stridulation.
Yaacov David Shulman