By Lynn Ascrizzi

This morning, after last night’s
thunderstorms and torrents of rain,
I watch black ants hurry along
damp boards, on the open porch.

I love their hasty, stop-and-go
movements, how they hug and kiss
each other, antennae
to antennae, as they meet.

I used to think it served biology only –
this habit of touching feelers –
just a simple relay of tribal codes,
a way to broadcast top headlines
of Colony News, with up-to-the-minute
stories of “fatals” on thorny stems,
obits on moles and grasshoppers,
toad alerts and forecasts of frost.

But now, I see their mutual affection,
the joy in each wired greeting,
how each belongs to each
and to the whole, how communicating
is part of love – how love
loves to communicate.