Leafhopper

A grey leafhopper with a very tall head
climbs up the finial on the deck
upside down and over the bulb
where it meets the rectangular beam.
Here, he cannot walk upside down,
there is no room. He looks right
he looks left, he knows it is the same all around.
He wants to go up.  He waits a second
and then he hops, upside down
to the bottom of the beam, and continues up.
He is determined, careful and wise.
He looks ahead, calculates, and deduces.
He executes, he is brave, and he is successful.
His feet are sticky, he is light,
he is strong, he is precise, and hard to find.
Listen, I'm not going to write about
how I wish I was like a leafhopper,
because I don't.
They don't have fancy meals, they don't enjoy music,
they don't fall in love, and they don't write.
And yet, leaves might taste incredible,
sounds could be ecstatic to them,
I really don't know if they fall in love,
and they don't write, but they are written about.
Whitman's Leafhoppers of Grass, for instance.