Not Forgotten

I love the way the black ants use their dead.

They carry them off like warriors on their steel

backs. They spend hours struggling, lifting,

dragging, so that even the dead will be of service.

It is not grisly -- as it would be for us --

to carry them back to be eaten. I think of

my husband at his father's grave --

the grass had closed

over the headstone and the name had disappeared. He took out

a pocket knife and cut the grass away; he swept it

with his handkerchief to make it clear. "Is this the way

we'll be forgotten?" And he bent down over the grave and wept.