Who made you woodlouse herder
darling? Fiercely intent
and crouched in frowning concentration,
You guide them
with soft voice and occasional gentle poke
from a dirt rimmed finger, tender
with care and hope
for their survival despite my thoughtless feet
and casual moving of pots.
Face pregnant with worry you will rescue them,
righting the fallen.
Occasionally cupping them in an reverent, hot palmed hand
to stroke the waving fringes
of their legs.