The
Gift of Chiggers
Let us praise chiggers for being great teachers of humility.
That morning I walked the newly mown grass
Seeking the chiggers’ cousins: spiders, butterflies, dragonflies, and
In my morning walk over the soft and green newly mown grass,
There grew within me a vicious thought:
I am ruler of this parish.
Camera at hand, comfortable clothes, proper hat—
The world’s noble things—
Lead me to assume that this morning, this grass, this space,
Were mine--all and truly mine.
But education and salvation were all around me--
Poised on magnificent blades of grass,
A generation of chiggers had been raised up, and
With the precision and beauty pervading the universe,
A crack battalion launched their attack,
Attacking me, the passing animal.
Striking my khaki slacks, trained and convinced kamikazes.
And I, reigning in ignorance over this morning, grass, and space,
Walked not knowing that I was a mere prop on so vast a stage.
By early afternoon deep itching, red welts, ugly pus-filled hurts
Formed with conviction.
Legs, calves, thighs, groin—all soon boasted
Pain’s red encampments.
Two weeks, medical science said.
You must not scratch, and
Bathe and apply what salves and creams you wish--
You shall suffer two weeks
For thinking yourself ruler of the parish.
__
May, 2011