It’s subtle, yet so skilled in combat,
It gets you before know it.
It creeps up behind you
And pins your shoulders together.
It touches your ears
And locks your head in a vice.
You struggle to break free,
but find yourself in a dance
It’s that powerful, that persuasive.
It makes you fall in love
With your own illusions
And forget about anyone else.
You become a justice warrior
For your own brand of justice.
Your skin burns white.
Your eyes see red.
Your hands tear at phantoms.
Spring is when the ants come out; the ants come in the spring.
Their being here reminds us all sand’s not a steady thing.
What’s underneath our houses does not support us well.
But after the next shaker removes us all to hell,
The ants will go on digging the tunnels in which they dwell.
It’s Spring that makes the ants come up and spread throughout our homes,
To drag a crumb from the living room into ant catacombs.
They don’t work so hard in winter’s cold; they sleep through summer’s heat.
If the rest of the year they live unseen, in spring they’re not discreet.
It’s rain that gets them clambering in ‘cause they don’t have a fleet.
Spring is when the ants assault; the spring is when they swarm.
So put your food away in jars before a thunderstorm.
Or else you’ll have to spray them, and that might make you wheeze.
The toxic cures are faster than the natural remedies,
And the last thing that you want is an ant attack reprise!
So Spring is when convictions die; when you do what you must
To send the little buggers back into their soggy dust.
Though I try to share the planet with creatures large and small,
I draw a line around my home. I will not have a brawl
With those who’d wrest it from my hands. And ants have got some gall!
So in Spring we duke it out, and pray for drought at least,
Lest you’re entertaining guests not invited to your feast.
If you value orderliness, or if you value peace,
You’ll guard from these introducers who aren’t scared by police,
Until the rain decreases. Please, Summer, brings release.
Spring is when the ants come out; the ants come in the spring.
Their being here reminds us all life’s not a steady thing.
Though life depends on water, and water spurs the green,
Too much of it’s disaster; too much of it’s obscene;
Too much and we’re invaded by visitors unclean.
When boy, now man, takes up his crown,
Streaks of gold withdraw to brown,
Dimpled cheeks grow a kinky lawn.
The outer child is clearly gone.
Though his looks keep rearranging.
In his soul he’s never changing.
English, Irish, Swede and Pole
Are bits of him that make a whole.
His need in foreign tongues to chat,
The day he chose the sickly cat
And loved it ’til his touch it trusted,
The time he stole a roll, got busted,
Plus his fear to learn to swim
Are all the things that make him him.
The curious eyes, not quite gray,
Reveals the child who liked to play
Piano, sing and write at four.
What else are pianos for
Except to share what’s in the heart?
This part of him will not depart
No matter how his life must turn,
No matter the living he may earn.
In his castle, man is roi;
In his heart, he’s still that boy.