Go to the ant, you sluggard,
and watch it lug an object
forward single file
with no short breaks for
coffee, gossip, a croissant,
and no stopping to apostrophize
blossom, by-passed because
pollen is not its job,
no pause for trampled companions:
consider her ways—and be content.
The race is not to the swift
but to those that can sit still
and let the waves go over them.
The battle is not to the strong
but to the frail, who know best
how to efface themselves
to save the streaked pansy of the heart from
being trampled to mud.