Compelling passion

Just outside our eastern window,

Above the purple-flowering mint,

A swarm, no, now three swarms,

Of tiny beings, tiny, tiny insects,

Swirl and bank and swirl still more:

How infinite the fury within them,

How stormy this tornado, this vortex.

Is it a frenzy of love?  Of hate?  Both?  

Whatever drives their dervish dance,

Whatever their compelling passion

In this morning’s summer sunlight,

It so delights and amazes me,

That I stop to watch, I must watch

This mystery with joyous envy,

This life in motion, this exuberance—

And when the radio plays a Bach fugue,

I smile without understanding why.