In the shadow of a cedar tree that gave you
sleep, one summer, one summer when all responsibilities
seemed to die (or so you dreamed)—water lilies
in a nearby pond, arms languishing at your side,
fingers finding the slope of an anthill, resting
on its impossible softness—when there,
three ants in a cluster, returning home
with the body of another.
You knew from their slowness
its heaviness—this way of carrying their dead
patiently, letting them witness the earth
once more before descending into dark.
You wondered if there were a quiet room
for them to gather, weigh the heart on a scale
against the soul, if there were tunnels
only the dead could travel. You doubted
such a journey could occur alone: the grace
of their antennae grazing your hand
to avoid it, locating the safe path
into the ground. Overhead, the sound
of a jay at the top of the tree, each branch
tranced in wind—how easy to forget
the feeling of wanting to be carried
into some other life.
