Interlude III

Writing, I crushed an insect with my nail
And thought nothing at all. A bit of wing
Caught my eye then, a gossamer so frail

And exquisite, I saw in it a thing
That scorned the grossness of the thing I wrote.
It hung upon my finger like a sting.

A leg I noticed next, fine as a mote,
"And on this frail eyelash he walked," I said,
"And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat."

And in this mood, I sought the little head,
But it was lost; then in my heart a fear
Cried out, "A life - why, beautiful, why dead!"

It was a mite that held itself most dear,
So small I could have drowned it with a tear.

Karl Shapiro