Near Darwin
He’s not so absorbed in the life around him
That he never looks up on clear nights
To admire the starry face of the sky.
But he’s awed even more by the earth he lives on,
By how much, for instance, its fertility
Depends on the unseen toil of earthworms.
Who would believe that over decades
Every inch of the field behind his house
Passes through their bodies again and again
As they feed on the dirt they tunnel through?
So much tireless turning over of loam,
So much natural harrowing, shredding, and leveling.
Yes, their work has undermined the stone wall
That marks the edge of his garden. But that’s a small price
For soil that nurtures the berries and grains
He enjoys at breakfast. Why turn from the table
To write a lament on the power of time
To undermine human effort when he can describe
How the work of worms helps sustain us?
Not to bother with them because they aren’t aware
Of his existence—how small-minded
That would seem to him in a species that prides itself
On understanding its place in the scheme of things,
As small-minded as thinking less of the stars
Because they aren’t twinkling for his benefit.
But the stars aren’t likely to go unnoticed
By a species quick to admire what’s distant,
Serene, and glittering, as opposed to what’s near,
Busy, and inconspicuous,
Working an inch beneath the grass.