Breakfast

And so, the little beetle,
Who secretly wished to live
In a toddler’s picture book,

Sang the song of permission
To do as a beetle pleased.
Folding her iridescence,

She wandered along a log,
Shining like a speck of sky,
And she did not see the world

As monster or invalid
She had to outwit or heal,
Nor as a giant scarab

Brilliantly echoing her.
She saw it as happening
While she nibbled on an ant,

While she was ruminating
That it was really something,
This beetle being a world.