Big as the proverbial bull he blunders and blusters
His way through fragments and shards of
Insect-like things too delicate and ephemeral for
His complete understanding;

While the fire reaches out past their inept prodding
Wrapping them all into a seeming symbiosis of feeling
They take sticks and stir and place and listen
When inside the wood the trapped insects hiss,

And whether here or over there they think they're just
Under stars, chilled to little pricks of identity,
Held in the glisten of light in the eyeball
Where the soul shines with a spark of more than fire;

For they huddle inwards to concentrate on concepts
Too vast for remembrance in the morning of their being
Born again to yet more light that stretches through
Another day of collecting wood for the fire.