The Song Of The Ant Poem by Pamela Spiro Wagner

"For the listener, who listens in the snow..."
Wallace Stevens


In those days I was always cold
as I had been a long time, mindful of winter
even at the solstice of my high summer days

always, always the crumb and crust of loss
and near-loss of everything held dear
before the saison d'enfers and the ice to come

Still there was the wind
There was the wind making music,
and I, at one with the quirky stir of air

bowing the suppliant trees
bowing the branches of those trees for the sound
of songs held long in their wood

Changes change us: rings of birth, death, another season
and we hold on for nothing and no reason
but to sing.