Poetry

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.