The Ant King
Wind always sighs from the effort
To labor through the pine boughs
And always leaves with resin on its breath
I’m not sure why the sigh haunts me so
To and fro, to and fro, a spooky sound
All the night, or forever until death
Morning, ants upon its weeping bark
Climb unhurried heavenward
Just to taste its bitter tears
And I, below, but on a lark, join them
On an impulse skyward, so at six,
I’ll remember through the years
A boy can dream of castle’s keep
Above some dungeon dark
And lift the makeshift manner gate
Wrapping the knotted sisal tightly
Around a sturdy willing limb
I’m the ant king, and that feels just great
When the vison passes, I shinny down
Pitch stuck on in shiny ribbon souveniers
And suddenly I know, why the wind sighs so.
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