Bedecked in a blue sundress she sat on the red
Sarong, spindly limbs blossoming in white
Fingers, five petals delicately clutching a
Scone, looking away, picking at the sweet idly,
Distractedly, the errant morsels that missed her petulant mouth
Fell, and landed on the red, so
wrong.

Jubilant, the ants walked, a fine line
Each fueled by a penchant for sweetness and
One, lifting a crumb above his head
Like Atlas, arms arced, the world
His supper, patiently marching home
tonight to feast on a cornflower’s
Crumbs.

Little ant-
When you carry a prize three times your size
At what point does the feast
Become a burden?