temple of ants

hear the chanting of clacking pincers,

guiding the way to

bits of broken pretzel,

crumbs from Hostess Twinkies,

sugary goop from a root beer Dum-Dum

all dropped by a small child

wending his way home, not wanting

to lose the trail back

out to the world



and the ants marching home,

with offerings for the One,

the mother,

never breaking free from the womb,

the scent of the great mother,

larger in her fecundity

than 20, 30 male workers,

fragile in her vulnerable

centrality

to life under ground

to the mound

to the hearts of thousands,

to the health of devoted followers

running unpatterned unpatterns

through sand, through soil,

through composting matter

and constant, exacting chatter