The Busker
A reel to greet the first light and a jig as the morning grew bright.
He waltzed the afternoon away, put a promenade to the end of the day,
And fell down sleeping where he stood in the middle of a night-long ballad.
The ants worked through it all.
When the breeze blew, the grasshopper danced.
Leaping high above the corn, flashing wings among the thorns.
Spinning through the falling leaves, the grasshopper courted every breeze,
And his shadow capered over the ants as they marched like mad.
The ants worked through it all.
When the first frost came, the grasshopper crumpled.
His joints froze. His fiddle cracked.
He lay alone on the barren ground.
Then the ants came. They surrounded him.
They spoke as ants speak,
In one voice.
"Music-maker who kept us moving,
Spirit of the harvest plenty,
one gift more we ask of you.
Speak of the sun to our winterborn,
Talk of the greentime that will return.
No one else could tell it so true."
They carried him home.
