Lawn Ratio (Poetry)

August in the fifties
that lull of being early
in a gardenful of stillness
just before the other kids
come out to play.

Belly-down on dew-sprung grass
and contemplating all that wriggles
from the roots — those things
that crawl or run minutely
or wing past.

Peering deep into that jungle
chin grazing velvet clover
I see the black-bead ants parade
their soldiers rippling along
stalky alleyways.

I am the giant they can’t conceive
who turns a fascinated gaze
on their lawnworld — situated close
for casual entertainment
until the bigger games begin.