Tiny black ants played tiny black flutes in the undergrowth.
Melodies came from the tall grasses.
She said she heard Gregorian chants.
I said, "No, ants are normal and natural, not neurotics."
I said, "I heard waltzes from old Vienna."
She inquired, "How can black flutes play the music
Of joie de vivre."
I told her to ask the black ants playing black flutes.
She asked the ants.  The ants laughed,
Replied, "Because we love the earth;
Do not hate the earth as monks do."
She arose from her chair,
Ran out of the garden.

 

 

River

The tom-tom river
Puts its green-veined,
Drum-beating hands
Into its backpockets,
Sends up threads of solitude
To start in the sky over us a tapestry.
The thread is red,
Given by a sunken tree
Who unbuttoned her bark
To let the bark flow away
To rooms of salt.
The next thread is silver,
Given by the scales of a silver-eyed fish.
Soon the sky above us
Will be a silver and red tapestry
Of solitude,
Teach us a new language.