The morning sun casts a square patch of light
Aslant our small backyard. My pyjamas hang
A shadow from the line, still in the still air.
Over the pavement cracked with weeds
The ants scurry, not unlike the back-and-forth
Of human life; never straight in line,
Their curlicues describe a welcome home,
A meet-and-greet, a touch-and-go,
An au revoir and Gott sei Dank.
Through that crazed milling, the skinks
(No longer than my index finger)
Slink under garden hose and dandelions.
Unaware I watch from our ragged doormat,
Their wriggled lives unfold like blades of grass
In the lightest summer breeze.
I suggest we weed the path
And instantly regret the change I force
From skink infested wilderness to civilized banality.