When I was young
and summer was fresh
I used to watch
the worms
bathe in the driveway
during a heavy rain.
They danced about
the pavement,
their pink flesh
speckled with dirt,
soaking up the droplets
so freely driven
d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
from the heavens.
And I would think
how nice to be a worm.
Days spent digging,
handless groping
through brown tunnels,
unseeing eyes peeled,
searching for a spouse
to do the dirt dance with
before introducing them
to the big, mean world
above.
And I’m still thinking
how nice to be a worm.
Focused only on
living,
crawling,
feeling,
never finding the time
to notice
the enthusiasm
of a thunderstorm
when children
press their noses
to windows
and wonder
what worms
are really all about.