I saw a young man
kneeling on the road,
saying sorry to a bunch of ants,
some he'd killed whilst striding along.
"I didn't mean to, believe me,
I was just careless while I walked,
you're as important to me,
as are the trees and the stars."
I wondered if it would do
if I consoled him of his blues,
of the nature of life and death,
how the cycle would include him too.
But something held me back,
discretion or intuit,
and I moved on, my mind full of men
who cared, and those who could not.
Last I saw him, he was engaged,
in seeing the breeze find its way through the leaves;
I joined him in his silence,
closer, for sharing a common grace.