The Beetle

That which is beatific about

The beetle who inhabits my yard

(Its great house, its tiny legs

And head, a wonder in themselves)

Is the length of time spent motionless

(A stance founded less on aesthetics

Than on a summoning of strengths

Gone stale beneath the carapace,

More still on inklings of the world

That it must fare in, perhaps most

On kinaesthesia that calibrates

Light's angle, surface, refracted heat-

O intricacies!) deciding whether

To cross my boot, or go roundabout,

Before climbing the stem and coming

To rest on the glistering sumac leaf

That is, despite all, its own choice,

So to speak.

The expenditure

Of Will is endless: and I have thought

(As light's angle, surface, refracted heat

Use my shell-more than God wrought!)

How all things felt are felt with equal

Passion: imprisoning rage, the ripe

Flowering conviction, are not more

Than acquiescence or apathy,

Seen as measures of mortality.

A plain view of this can become

A hateful problem.

To have made the beetle,

In my futility, a full symbol

Of that which is inexhaustible

Has to do with its having burned,

Glowed in the light for many hours

(Its frond trembling in the heat),

Given to no compensation

Save that, not knowing what it seeks,

It bides, not knowing what it has,

And has not twitched once in the calm

For reasons of lust, fear, or pride.