A Whispering Beetle
Nancy Takacs
I am like this beetle,
tentative and a little blue,
or is that the reflection of sky
on her back or is it
the reflection of my cup
as she wanders toward
my warm hand?
I sit in the frayed lawn chair
before today’s winds
that are supposed to rip up
trees and roofs. She
paces from my hand
to my shoulder so easily
whispering in my ear:
take better care of yourself,
and I feel the first breeze
before the storm comes,
I feel her antennae
caressing my cheek,
this, the second day of spring
though already I’m worrying
the apple tree will freeze,
and she says: hush,
the blossoms will come,
but please carry me back
on your soft palm
and place me under
the juniper tree
where my sisters and I live,
gently, gently.
Published in About Place Journal, 2025.
The speaker identifies with something as small as a beetle. They are both vulnerable, the speaker maybe more so than the calm, wise beetle. Fearful of what comes with climate change, and the devastation caused by sudden large storms, the speaker hears the female beetle’s words that lead her into an awakening to care better for herself first, and then to care for the beetle as well. These are gentle instructions to the self, a plea to lessen anxiety. It is the interaction that sets the speaker on a good path. We all have awakenings, interacting with creatures we are a part of. Through caring, in this case, we give each other hope, especially during these egregious times that affect both humans and animals.
NANCY TAKACS is an avid boater, hiker, and mushroom forager. She lives near the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore in northern Wisconsin, and in the high-desert town of Wellington, Utah. Her latest book of poems is Dearest Water (Mayapple Press, 2022). nancytakacs.org