A poem for you, recently part of the Boulder Valley UU Fellowship poetry service:
MARTYRS AND WORMS
Worms don’t volunteer
to be flooded from home,
to feed the hungry robin.
No cathedral rises in honor of worms,
no beatification of night crawlers.
Saint Worm slays no dragons,
writes no treatise on the meaning
of wriggling toward the divine. No one
reports visions of Mary with a worm.
I avoid stepping on worms
stranded on the sidewalk,
not that I care enough
or I’d lift the worm to safety
in the grass, smuggle it away
from the reach of hard, quick beaks.
I’m tempted to shrug: a worm’s a worm
for all I know. But I don’t know.
Squiggles drying in the sun are
as mysterious as questions of good
and evil, plague, hunger and mayhem.
Worm or human, the wheel turns,
grinds and lets go.