My Father

My father was a pile of ants
Set in motion aeons hence
They rose up boldly from the earth
And gave illusion of life and mirth

But now that colony has broken
And the name we call it, that beloved token
Does not live on beyond the clouds
Creeping merrily ‘pon heavenly mounds

Such thoughts, to me, seem inane
For those lively creatures still remain
But today we give a different name
And tomorrow we shall do the same.