Shoveling pond ice,
I find an enormous beetle
on its back, frozen. I can’t help
but stare for several minutes.
Its black eyes are still intact,
though dim, its six legs
almost daintily bent.
There is so much
I have not noticed before.
What a gift every smallest
symposium —nothing too
slight to invite our curiosity,
our wonder, our sense
that we are part of a much,
much larger conversation—
it makes it harder
to feel lonely.