Almost dusk.
She was sitting at the picnic table,
in the backyard, pondering on what to write.
Casually, she flicked off the tiny beetle
that was crawling on her arm,
then felt bad... How utterly disrespectful
to be flicked away like a nonentity!
Time...compressed.

She imagined the beetle tumbling through the air
and falling-crack, landing on its back,
tiny fractured carapace oozing bug fluid,
its six miniscule legs kicking weakly.
Thought how small a bug’s brain is,
compared to a Mans. Yet, its essence
was just as important as her own.

She wondered about being a beetle,
rigid with strength, thin-shelled and fragile.
How does an arm feel to a beetle;
like solid warmth? With stalks of hair-trees
to maneuver around in search of
morsels of food to sustain its brief existence?
How similar to Man...

She tried to see where the tiny beetle had landed,
thinking to set it somewhere safe.
But where would that be? The dim light
had deepened, the beetle was undetectable.
So precious, the essence of life’s Time.
She wished the beetle good fortune,
feeling her own with shafting poignancy,
as she reentered
her own exiting Time…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 4/15/04