By Esme Bell
How like ants we must feel
to these green hands,
chapped and valleyed
in their kite-doting age.
Four paws and two boots
make six, but not enough
still to read, properly, your
grassy life line. Enough maybe
to walk home and dream
of an endless sky smile mirrored
in the earth, with sheep for teeth.
Enough to write a poem.