The little beetle scurries under the boles of concrete trees, has glass for leaves. It peers up through half-lit branches that are rungs for it to climb - A life is above, more meaningful than its tattered ball of dung - For there the elusive sun shines, that it has pushed through winter to the Spring - and it is gaining size and weight, strengthening and the little beetle, job Done, can go to ground until the fall of winter leaves wakes him to begin again.next poem