A Newtly Haiku

My newts—mere babes at
eight months old—are making new
newts, tucked in the back

of the literature
classroom. My students, now sea-
soned and wise, cheer on

their procreative
ways: their manner of making
waves in their quiet,

tall, hexagon tank.
They wrestle (the newts, not the
students) lock arms and

dance desperately—
a tarantella of sorts,
a rigor vitas…

and little egg sacs
trail from their backs, then attach
to a stone below.

“They’ll eat them” I’m told
(the newts, not the students) so
I’ve dutifully set

up another tank,
leaving the egg sacs in peace.
The newts still take arms,

and little egg sacs
have attached to the stones of
this second fake pond…

and so on and so
on and so my poor students
read life in the round.