Look Back At Me
by Diana Willand
What Are We
by Tiffany Chan
Like little ants marching in straight lines across my vision,
For function, for organization, for discovery.
A little click with each black speck,
Each holding something,
They can carry the light weight of a puff of snow,
Or the hammer blow of falling hail.
They carry anguish and heavy emotions
And the lifting, lilting laughter.
Like little Oreos stacked on a white countertop,
They contain sweetness within darkness.
Each is organized, stacked one on top of the other,
Waiting to be dunked in milk and eaten.
They are like little clicks from a metronome,
Each one is coordinated,
Falling at a specific time,
Yet can be manipulated into varying tempos.
Like little hammers hitting the strings within a piano,
The next note rarely copies its forerunner.
Each note burgeoning into multiple meanings,
Echoing and repeating again, and again, and again,
Being heard differently each again, anew, afresh.
Little ants divided by spaces in straight small sentences,
Carrying such a large varied load across so many turns,
Each being different, but sometimes seeming the same.
It depends on the receiver.