Like a centipede without legs it pushes it’s way
through the thick earth, unseeing, opting to avoid
stones and wood that silently strew its darkling trail,
chewing on Autumnal leaves, debris of long ago.
Finding new ways and rising to drink from sweet
spring rains, it noses its way through he roots
of wonders that enjoy its bounteous secretors.
A bird waits, head tipped listening, beak tapping
and the innocent worm hangs in the beak ready
feed the gaping abyss of nestlings, ever hungry
and so the worm builds their bodies and gives
them flight over the verdant earth as cultured,
changed by its turgid turning of the hidden ’til
composted it sustains a complexion of creation.
Every second it is digesting and reinventing the
sustenance that builds until humans sprayed on
chemicals that kill, chemicals to will the plants
into a life that man chooses; the worm slowly
absorbs poisons and artifices of the populace
and dying takes with it the gift it brought, life,
If only we’d eyes to see and the wisdom of worms