By Any Reckoning

A young grasshopper lands 
on the paper, I was writing upon, 
making a chirping sound― 
and starts reading the poem. 

It was an exceptional treat 
for the eyes. Shutting the storm 
window, I will watch the rain― 
pounding on the frame, 
to recall the visitor― 

which was behaving like a 
celtic Druid, in meditation, to see 
the future of mankind. 

Not sure, the bent legs, will 
ever lift the body and 
propel it to move. 

The mayhem was thin, but I 
declared― the poetry 
was not for insects.