Frigid

Another poem.... Seems to be my non-sonnet week!

When I was about 4 years old,

and the world stretched in front of my curious eye,

Innocent, amazing and simple- reassuring as the pale blue sky.

I stood at my balcony,

still struggling my little hand the edges to reach

and watching day in and day out

The march of the red ants, their silent screech,

to a little anthill they had carved in the wall,

A refuge for winter, and the two week fall.

They walked all day collecting morsels of dead insects

and anything they could find-

collecting and cherishing as connoisseurs do wine;

years of patience and solid determination,

desire, motivation, focused hard work, deliberation

modeling all those values self-help books instill, and innately

sure formulae for success, and fame, stately

One day, as they marched along towards their "success",

I pulled them all out with a thin brown stick

and dissolved their long stored food into a little yellow mug,

Then poured it down the drain-

A four year boy rendering years of work futile -

years sewn from millions of impatient minutes

with the thread of hope and perseverance, undying enthusiasm-

all in vain now!

And years later, as I see you today,

I feel like the ants once did

Unable to get my shattered dreams rid.

Unable to remain. Frigid.