2025 Selections

Thank you, to everyone who participated in the 2025 Hexapod Haiku Challenge. This year we had 325 participants from 37 countries who submitted 980 poems! We hope this challenge encouraged you to spend time observing and learning about the insects and other arthropods you've crossed paths with in the last year. We thank Anne Burgevin again for her invaluable assistance in helping the Frost Entomological Museum coordinate this haiku contest. Congratulations to the Laureate and Honorable Mention poets!

Below are the selected haiku from this year's challenge, which will be on temporary exhibit at the Frost Entomological Museum through August. The haiku are organized by age category and the author's last name, with notes from the judges. The selections from this year's special category, Ground Dwelling Arthropods, follow the selections from the general submissions. Our selection process is blind, and judges look for haiku that are well constructed and which highlight interesting observations of, and interactions with, the insect world. Enjoy reading the selections!

General Category

12 & Under Laureates

walking leaf
your disguise is outdated
in a concrete world

–Rebecca Fraser, New Zealand

This poem is reminiscent of Kobayashi Issa's haiku. Issa was one of the four original haiku masters, who often spoke directly to an insect and added a touch of sad humor, as Fraser has done. "Walking leaf" alludes to changing landscapes and the slow disappearance of natural habitat. The concrete world contrasts against unstated green habitats, in which this insect (likely a phasmid but perhaps a katydid) might have been effectively disguised. Some animals adapt to changing landscapes over merely a few generations, perhaps most famously the peppered moth's (Biston betularia) response to industrial pollution in the United Kingdom. Its more common whitish coloration was replaced in the population by a darker morph that blended in against soot-covered tree trunks, a phenomenon referred to as "industrial melanism." Some spiders have even started building webs that dampen the vibrations caused by the persistent noise of urban environments. Will the insects that rely on camouflage to escape predation now start exhibiting shades of gray and hues typically reflected in urban landscapes? Will walking leaves soon become walking bricks? While on the topic of building materials, the use of concrete in this haiku is intriguing because it has multiple meanings. One way to interpret this word is to think of it as embodying a declaration of a fact, a concrete statement. It was skillful of Fraser to opt for this word. Whereas other choices may have also conveyed similar imagery, they may not have conveyed multilayered meaning. 

The stag beetle lays
decomposing on a bed
of the softest leaves.

–Ian Hanson, United States

Complete sentences rarely make for successful haiku; here is an exception. There is no break, but rather a spiraling surprise that skillfully creates juxtaposition. Stag beetles are known for their "weaponry": large mandibles that in some species look like the antlers of a stag. This modification of the mouthparts is primarily a male trait, and they are deployed in battles with other males for territory and access to females. Microscopic analyses of the exoskeleton in related fighting beetles even revealed that these weapons are reinforced in areas that receive the most stress during battle. These structures are highly refined fighting tools. Line 1 opens with a warrior, clad in armor—the stag beetle—an image that rapidly softens as we read on. The warrior lays dead and decomposing, in a bed. The last line softens this scene even further, both figuratively and literally. The stag beetle, with its hard exoskeleton and fierce weaponry, is contrasted against a bed of softest leaves. The word "softest" feels intentional, and we wonder if someone laid this beetle to rest. The reader feels tenderness and acceptance in the way this death is being viewed and described. Not all haiku poets choose to write about death and dying. Although there is a plethora of funeral, cemetery, and death bed haiku, writers have preferences. Hanson, tackles the difficult topic of death in a delicate and sensitive way. Although this warrior beetle has seen the end of its life, it is now returning to the earth as it decomposes in a bed of soft leaves. In this way, Ian's haiku is a tribute to the beauty and fleeting nature of life. 

12 & Under Honorable Mentions

one shadow
over the daisy
the butterfly

–Camille Brunson, United States

The shadow overhead sets an ominous tone. Someone or something blocks the light; is it descending? We tense up. The clipped nature of lines 1 and 2 possibly add to this ominous tone. The haiku gradually lightens the mood by revealing a flower and then a butterfly. As with all good haiku, this poem allows for multiple interpretations and emotions. Perhaps the word "shadow" does not convey a foreboding feeling to you. One of us sees a fleeting moment, a butterfly passing over as it flits about on a warm, sunny day. Another interpretation reveals a butterfly landing on the daisy, to imbibe its nectar. Perhaps we witness this scene as a tiny thrips, buried in the flower as the butterfly lands—its proboscis probing and sweeping about for sweet liquid. We revel in this haiku's deceptive simplicity. While some haiku appear to be merely descriptive of a seasonal moment, it is important to think and look more deeply. For instance, in Brunson's haiku she mentions one thing in each line. Why? What effect does this have? What is the significance of something being only itself? This haiku encourages the reader to think about it, and in doing so, come to a closer relationship with self, another, and place. 

Early morning
a butterfly still
asleep on my window

–Edie Ensor, New Zealand

Do insects sleep? Researchers have explored this question since at least the early 1800s, but we didn't have a concrete answer until 2000. They do indeed sleep, and they experience fluctuations in brain activity during their slumber that are similar to those experienced by humans (perhaps insects even dream). Naturalists Phil and Nellie Rau published a review of their observations of sleeping insects in 1916. They noted that butterflies often perched on the tops of plants when they slept, orienting their bodies along a North-South axis. Maybe they are trying to catch the morning light, to warm their bodies before seeking breakfast. They are poikilothermic (cold-blooded), after all. (There's even a spider that takes advantage of sleeping insects, subduing them with silk in the middle of the night. Yikes!)

This haiku would fit right into the Raus' review. The reader shares a quiet moment with the poet, admiring the butterfly before it skitters away. Early morning indeed, as we are probably up before the sun. The dual meaning of "still"—revealing no motion and remaining in the same spot—efficiently describes the history and presence of this insect. We must have seen it last night, for it to "still" be at the window. Still also sounds like "sill", which may be the butterfly's chosen place to rest. Although capitalization is used sparingly in haiku, we find it interesting that Ensor chose to capitalize "Early." It creates the effect of an announcement, which seeing a butterfly on your window may well warrant. 

A stick insect
as still as it can be
but slowly moving around

–Matilda Pitman, New Zealand

Discovering a stick insect in its natural environment always feels special. It is also quite an accomplishment. These insects exhibit remarkable camouflage, with bodies shaped and colored like twigs. They adapt their movement to the motion of the plants around them, often adopting a swaying behavior that mimics the wind blowing through the branches. We refer to this behavior as motion masquerade. Finding one of these insects means you are indeed a very keen observer of your surroundings. 

The first two lines of Pitman's haiku feel stick-y when read aloud, with several "t" and "ck" sounds. The third line provides a break, slowing the reader down and introducing a contradiction or maybe just an observation. The insect is as still as it can be but also slowly moving around. Perhaps the insect hopes to become even more immobile but it fears being discovered as a twig that is not behaving like the others. This is as calm as it can be and still survive. An insect shaped like a stick is such a great topic for a hexapod haiku. The poet used it to its full potential when she decided to shape the poem on paper using small steps downward, like small steps the insect might be taking.

13 - 17 Laureates

crack of dawn
a cicada climbing out
of its exuviae

–Seby Ciobia, Romania

This haiku is full of beauty and vulnerability. The phrase "crack of dawn" establishes the time of day but also sets the stage for the dawning of a new era for the cicada. As discussed with Gregory Tullock's haiku, "the sound of spring", molting for insects (referred to as ecdysis) marks a transitional period in their lives, where they leave parts of themselves behind and emerge anew. New exoskeletons must remain soft during the transition, to allow the body to pulse and tear open the old ones along lines of weakness (ecdysial lines) and to ease each appendage from its sheath of old cuticle. Once fully emerged (eclosed in entomology terms, at least if it's an adult), the exoskeleton begins to harden again, a process referred to as sclerotization. Insects often remain seemingly immobile for this process. Molting usually happens under cover of darkness or shelter, as the transition leaves insects vulnerable to predators. 

In this haiku, the brittle hardness of the cast skin (exuviae) is subtly juxtaposed against softness of new skin. We appreciate the choice to use "exuviae", which is as appropriate and precise as it is difficult to pronounce (somewhat like ex-yoo-vee-ay). It takes time for people to learn to say, and to pronounce, exuviae. It also takes time and effort for cicadas to complete this process. "Climbing out" suggests something arduous. More general terms for a shed exoskeleton include "skin" or "shell", but the use of "exuviae" here exemplifies the marriage of poetry and entomology that the Hexapod Haiku Challenge strives to achieve. 

dragonflies
mom's wild chase
with the camera

–Danish Yumnam, United Arab Emirates

This haiku exhibits the Japanese aesthetic of karumi, with its simplicity and light humor. Written with ordinary language, the two parts of this haiku converge to set the scene. We sense the wonderment from mom, chasing dragonflies with their camera. We also sense the child's fondness, watching their mom's antics. Because more than one dragonfly is involved, perhaps the mom is running here and there, unsure about which dragonfly to follow and hopefully photograph. Dragonflies are fast, reaching speeds of nearly 35 miles per hour (56 kilometers per hour), and extremely agile. They make sharp turns, quick dives, and hover in flight. These traits make them successful predators and also very difficult to catch. No wonder mom's chase was a wild one!

13 - 17 Honorable Mention

heat wave 
a grasshopper jumps 
into my shade

–Antonia Chersan, Romania

Chersan crafts a poem that reads well aloud, with near-rhymes "wave" and "shade" accentuated by the s and p sounds in line 2. The last line reveals a mild surprise; insects usually jump away from us, not towards us! Similar to Maica's haiku above, Chersan deftly creates two images that are strengthened and joined by the last line. We can feel the heat of the summer and the surprise of the grasshopper's sudden hop. The word "jumps" is well placed, as if it is a jumping off point in the poem. It draws readers to the last line. Have you ever been startled by a grasshopper jumping nearby? It makes a certain sound, especially when the foliage around it is dry and brittle, and it often jumps well into our sight, no matter what height each of us is. Afterwards, it fades into the grasses where it is well camouflaged again, especially if it's shaded. Is this a coincidental meeting of human and hexapod? Most likely, it is, but it is fun to ponder and wonder about it. 

empty playground
a damselfly resting
in the hopscotch

–Florin Maica, Romania

This haiku, in lines 1 and 2, presents two concrete and seemingly unconnected images: an empty playground and a damselfly at rest. The third line reveals their relationship, bringing the insect and the setting together into a single moment. Though the imagery is tangible, there remains much ambiguity. Playgrounds usually mean bustling children, laughing and yelling—the emptiness of this playground feels quiet and incomplete, as if something is missing. Typically, a stone rests in one of the hopscotch squares after it is thrown by the player. How interesting to picture a live animal resting instead of a stone! Is the damselfly beckoning children to come and play? Or is the damselfly simply resting in the peace left behind once the children have left? However you read this haiku, it leaves one with a potential feeling of fancy, beckoning or playfulness. 

18 & Older Laureates

turning the earth
a bumper crop
of anthills

–Cynthia Anderson, United States

The first line, "turning the earth", has a rhythmic and cyclical feel to it, as if the sound of the words spoken aloud mimics the actual turning of the earth. The near rhyme of "turn" and "earth" further strengthens the relationship between the verb and the noun. The earth turns on its own, humans turn earth (soil)… and so can ants. We imagine a field of upturned soil, and then a field, chock-full of some successful crop. The last line, "of anthills" surprises, and changes the image of the crop. 

Instead of a field of green, there is an abundance of anthills that have made themselves at home in an untended field. Ants are great modifiers of an environment. They build homes for their colonies, with vast networks of tunnels and chambers underground. Aboveground anthills are merely the very tops of nests, humble entrances, and building these nests certainly turns the earth and aerates the soil. We thought the use of the term bumper crop was nuanced, evoking an image of successful crops, but also appropriately describing the bumps of the anthills. Anderson has an element of a Japanese aesthetic in her haiku called makoto, which translates as poetic honesty and sincerity. 

into the exit hole
of an oak marble gall
the autumn wind

–John Barlow, United Kingdom

Many insects have the ability to manipulate plants, coercing them into creating novel structures ("galls") that shelter and feed the insects or their progeny. Galls can be quite sophisticated, with elaborate and adaptive architecture and layers of plant tissue that are modified to be maximally nutritious for the insect parasites inside.  A gall is almost like a gumball in a wrapper. The insect resides inside the gumball, eating the tasty treat from the inside out. The wrapper, which is not edible, serves to protect the insect and its food. The oak marble gall is one such structure, induced by a gall wasp, Andricus kollari, on pedunculate oak (Quercus robur) and related species in Europe (trees that are very similar to white oaks in North America). The wasp goes through metamorphosis inside the gall, eclosing as an adult in autumn. She chews through the gall wall to create the exit hole, from which she emerges. 

The cultural relevance of galls is vast, with many species used historically as medicine, as sources for tannic acid, to tan leather and make ink, and even as food for people and livestock. Despite this long history, we can probably count on one hand the number of haiku about plant galls (maybe one finger, if you look at our recent analysis of insects in haiku). 

This haiku presents elements of this species' biology (exit hole, autumn) while also capturing a compelling, contemplative moment. Perhaps the gall wasp has just now stepped out into the world, leaving the relative comforts of the only home it has known. Its fledgling flight leaves the exit hole exposed, allowing in the autumn wind. What adventures await? Or perhaps the exit hole was left by a usurper. At least 18 other kinds of wasps are associated with oak marble galls, either as parasites of the gall (these species are called inquilines) or as parasites of the gall wasp itself (these species are referred to as parasitoids). Each of these insects makes its own exit hole, and the size varies according to species. There is an element of wabi sabi, as the gall appears to be at the end of its life. Without occupants, the gall decays and becomes a resource for fungi and other arthropods. Beetles and caterpillars might consume it, while spiders sometimes use galls as shelters, while they molt.

The judges recognized the finesse Barlow used by comparing one round thing to another, that is, the exit hole to a marble. On the other hand, there is also a linear sense to the poem, that of the wind blowing through the gall hole, creating contrast to the round objects. Sensory elements in this haiku abound. We can feel the wind and hear it whistle against the exit hole. And we can almost smell the wood of the oak and see the falling leaves outside, in the waning light of the season.

setting sun
we follow the fireflies
into the woods

–Joanne Morcom, Canada

Morcom's poem captures a moment that is both tranquil and even (possibly) haunting. Herein lies the beauty of haiku. We bask in the orange glow (and warmth) of the day's fading sun, our serenity punctuated by the beckoning green light of fireflies. In many parts of the world this is a familiar experience, even a rite of passage for summer. We chase fireflies, collecting them in jars to share the magic with others. We factor bioluminescence into our vacations, timing trips to coincide with firefly festivals or targeting regions of the world with other insects that glow. We also increasingly care about the wellbeing of these insects, folding their ecological needs into land management decisions. Public interest in fireflies is surging.

The second and third line together affirm the allure of these insects. We follow them into uncertainty. "The woods" harkens back to Grimm's fairy tales. Are we led by fairies? What happens in the woods? Perhaps the fireflies simply serve as a catalyst for experiences that reveal even more natural phenomena. The forest comes alive after dark, afterall, with nocturnal insects and other organisms we overlook during our waking hours. The judges appreciated the yugen created by the last lines—the unstated elements that trigger an emotional response by suggesting something mysterious. Some readers may revel in the unbridled joys of summer, while others may feel a sense of foreboding. We also noted the "f" sounds in the middle line which add a fanciful and fun sense to the poem.

the sound of spring
molting into summer
— cicadas

–Gregory Tullock, United States

Cicadas are hemimetabolous, meaning they don't go through a radical transformation when transitioning from nymph (immature stage) to imago (adult stage). By contrast, holometabolous insects require a resting stage, the pupa, to complete the complicated body reorganization (metamorphosis) and transition from larva to adult.

Tullock's haiku is about transition, a compelling topic for haiku poets. During a seasonal transition, some things are ending while others are beginning, and there is often exciting overlap, such as when colder temperatures lessen and maple sap begins to run. The phrase in this haiku (lines 1 and 2) invites readers to step into the transition of spring to summer and experience the soundscapes that are occurring.

The fragment (line 3) abruptly pulls your attention from the collection of sounds and senses to focus on a single one—cicadas. Although cicadas are a common insect reference, this haiku provides a unique perspective by focusing not on the peak thrumming sounds of summer cicadas, but rather focusing on the first occurrences of cicada sounds and implying their presence marks the changeover of seasons. 

"Molting" is a carefully chosen keyword. The molting of insects truly marks transitional periods in their life. An insect sheds its exoskeleton, allowing for growth and new beginnings. As a cicada nymph sheds its skin during a molt and transitions to something fresh and new, the sounds of springtime are also shed during this time of year, allowing the sounds of summer to emerge and take their place. We appreciate the "s" sounds in this haiku, which bring to mind the singing of cicadas.

18 & Older Honorable Mentions

dripping
through the leaves
caterpillar droppings

–Tim Cremin, United States

Anyone who has witnessed a heavy infestation of canopy folivores (leaf eaters), for example spongy moth (Lymantria dispar) or even certain walking sticks, has probably also experienced the triumphant rain of frass (insect excrement) that follows. The pitter patter of falling feculae mimics the sounds of a passing shower. Frass bouncing off your skin even feels like rain. You won't get wet, though, as these insects do a great job of recovering water from their digested food, through folds in their rectums. These folds are what give caterpillar turds their characteristic shape.

This haiku captures such a moment—the illusion of rain, created by caterpillars in the canopy. The first two lines set a familiar scene, as the reader imagines water dripping through the canopy, splashing off the leaves as drops descend to the forest floor. The third line adds a twist; it's a dry and mildly unpleasant rain. Dripping and dropping, words that are euphonious and almost homographic, effectively bookend the moment, with letters (p and g) that look quite like falling frass. Additionally, dropping is the past tense of dripping. Cremin added greater depth to the meaning of the haiku overall by choosing these interrelated words. Cremin's haiku suggests to his readers they keep their minds open and their senses alert. Things are not always what they seem, in other words. A moment might present us with a pleasant surprise, and other times with a not-so-pleasant surprise. 

shutter speed
the wings
of a hoverfly

–Jeff Hoagland, United States

Hover flies (flies in the family Syrphidae) are amazing insects. They are ecologically diverse, occupying a wide range of habitats, from backyard gardens, to compost heaps, ant nests, and stagnant water. As adults, hover flies are important pollinators in both natural and agricultural landscapes. Many species are uncanny mimics of bees and wasps, and some even migrate thousands of miles annually. These insects have incredible flight capabilities, with wingbeats recorded as fast as 200 beats per second (seriously, flap your arms around a few times to try and gauge how fast that is!). 

Here, Hoagland reminds us to spend time noticing and appreciating the tiny details of nature. In this haiku, someone is observing and photographing the wings of a hover fly. Their chosen shutter speed would determine how the wings are portrayed in the photograph—a slow shutter speed resulting in blurry wings, or a faster speed freezing the wings in motion. Small changes in camera settings can alter the way a moment is portrayed in a photograph, just as small changes in diction can alter the way a haiku moment is portrayed. 

The mechanics of Hoagland's haiku excite us. For instance, "shutter speed" can be spoken quickly, just as the shutter on a camera moves, and a hover fly's wings beat. The brevity of this haiku echoes the brief moment the poet may have had to observe the hover fly as he, or someone else, attempted to photograph it. The subtle comparisons in this haiku are quite masterful. 

bottom drawer -
among so many dusty things
a few young moths

–Vasile Moldovan, Romania

The first line of this haiku illustrates something simple: a bottom drawer. The hyphen at the end of line 1 serves as the drawer itself being opened. The contents of the drawer, and why they are covered in dust, remains ambiguous. The language in this poem is plain, but do not be fooled. Plain language, when well crafted, creates ample space for exploration, a goal of haiku poets. For instance, the contrast between "so many" and "a few" may conjure notions of old and young, in that we accumulate things throughout our lives such that by the time we have grown old, we possess many things. We imagine clothes, long-forgotten, inside a drawer that has not been opened for months or years. One interpretation discussed was that the drawer and items could belong to someone who recently passed away, and a loved one was finally clearing out items after a long period of time had passed. In another interpretation someone intends to move and is deciding what to take and what to leave behind. There exists an element of neglect or decay, artfully juxtaposed with the new life of young moths. The phrase of this haiku, lines 2 and 3, contains a significant number of n and m sounds. How does this impact your experience of reading Moldovan's haiku?

We infer that the moth in this poem is one of a few species of clothes moths [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clothes_moth], which are small, brown moths that evolved to eat keratin, including wool, fur, feathers, and antlers, rather than plants. They can be found inside homes, eating our sweaters and rugs, but in the natural world these caterpillars clean up the keratin left behind by bird and mammal nests and carcasses. 

No Mow May
The soft damp earth yields
Firefly June

–Steve Plumb, United States

A few years ago, the wildlife conservation group Plantlife started a campaign called "No Mow May". They recognized that meadows in the UK had largely been replaced by lawns and other resource-poor landscaping, and they hoped that a delay in management would allow flowers to bloom and sustain pollinators - butterflies and bees. Wildly successful, No Mow May has since caught on almost worldwide. While catchy as a phrase, it's not clear that the strategy is appropriate for every habitat, in every region. For pollinators especially, it might be better to plant more native flowers and make other habitat improvements. In some regions not mowing your grass that time of year may create a fire hazard or encourage ticks to quest for hosts. Homeowners have lots of options when it comes to protecting wildlife, and ongoing research will undoubtedly inform strategies that are appropriate for each region.

This haiku opens with a hopeful message. Not mowing in May has allowed the earth to retain water and remain supple and productive. In the third line we discover, perhaps surprisingly (at least for us), that this process has also allowed fireflies (Lampyridae) to complete their life cycle. These beetles are famous for their bioluminescence and maybe less well known as indicators of a healthy environment. Their larval stages typically require clean habitat and a lot of moisture, which is why firefly larvae are often closely associated with clean riparian habitat. Fireflies were not the intended target for the No Mow May campaign, but their presence here is a delightful outcome. The haiku spurred discussion here at Penn State about how a successful homeowner land management strategy for fireflies would look and whether we could invent a catchy, descriptive name for it. Given growing public interest in firefly biology and conservation, perhaps the time is right.

These two haiku stood apart not just as well-written and captivating poems but also because they appear to be two perspectives of the same moment. Perhaps the poets sat concurrently on opposing banks of this creek, watching the same damselfly. Ohio isn't that far from Pennsylvania! Patchel had clear views of a single insect and the water around it, while Stover's view of multiple jewelwings was dominated by reflected light. Both poets focus their haiku on the insects' wings.

Patchel's haiku is a study in contrasts: quiet vs. current, resting vs. pulsing. The damselfly readies itself of action, for flight. We can feel the potential energy of this moment. Will it confront a competitor or pursue a mate? Perhaps it will chase another insect, a midge or a mayfly, and grab it for a meal. Damselflies are predators, in all stages of their life cycles. Immatures are referred to as naiads, the nymphs associated with flowing water in Greek mythology, because they are always found in water.

The ebony jewelwing is a species of damselfly (Calopteryx maculata) famous for its beauty (metallic green body, paddle-like black wings) and its frenetic, pulsing flight. We can almost see the damselfly in the words of Stover's haiku. The opposing double letters—pp in line 1and dd of line 3—effectively illustrate the paddle-shaped wings, which attach to the insect's name in line 2, nearly in the same position.

Both haiku are about damselflies, and both illustrate the fact that damselflies exist near sources of water. And yet, these haiku are quite different in other ways. We believe that by pairing them, the sum total would be even greater than its parts. Truly, a special looking glass through which to understand the environment and behaviors of damselflies, and to appreciate them, and haiku about them. 

Special Category – Ground-Dwelling Arthropods

We chose ground-dwelling arthropods as the special category this year because we wanted to highlight a subset of arthropods that are incredibly important but which receive less attention than their skyward counterparts. Ground-dwelling arthropods serve as decomposers, nutrient cyclers, and soil aerators, among other roles. Although a little less glamorous, they are critical to functioning, healthy ecosystems! A quote by Henry David Thoreau, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads", rings true in that there is much to discover and connect with on a deeper level that lives at our feet, if only we choose to look for it. We hope this special category encouraged you to look.

12 & Under Laureates

up up up a tree
leaf-cutting ants dwell
their scuttling footsteps

–Mia Zhang, New Zealand

Leaf-cutter ants build nests underground, and are extraordinary animals. Zhang is knowledgeable about these ants and knows they transit between their nests in the ground and the trees, from which they harvest leaves. Are they ground dwelling? Absolutely. However, the poet leaves this fact unsaid. The haiku beckons readers to learn more about these insects, who have been engaged in a kind of agriculture for more than 50 million years. There are more than 50 species of leaf cutter ants, and they sustain their colonies by cultivating fungi for food. The fungal gardens are delicately tended and regularly fed a diet of fresh leaves. Workers often form long lines, sometimes extending deep into and then out of the canopy. Each returning ant carries a portion of leaf, carefully clipped from the canopy and sometimes hosting its own diminutive worker ant, who prepares the leaf for fungus while still in transit. Some of these ant species have even fully domesticated their farmed fungus, which no longer appears naturally outside of the colony.

In line 1, we gaze upwards, from the base of a tree, exploring thoughts of scale and perspective. How does the scene look through an ant's compound eyes? The large tree and comparatively tiny ants provides an effective juxtaposition. The repetition of "up" emphasizes that this trail is likely a formidable hike for these creatures. Or perhaps the poet encourages readers to look up. We appreciate the (near) rhymes of "up", "cut", and "scuttling" in each line. Imagining the sounds of ants' footsteps (give a listen) left us in a delightful state of curiosity and wonderment. 

13 - 17 Laureates 

little hands
expose the secret life
of a family of millipedes

–Penny Scarlett, New Zealand

We understand millipedes to be mostly solitary detritivores, who feed on decaying vegetation. At least some species feed directly on fungi, though, and some of them are known to be subsocial. They form aggregations that represent multiple generations, and there is even evidence of paternal brood care. Dad grooms and cares for the eggs, wrapping his body around them until hatch time. (Some great photos in this article.) Do we witness such a moment in this haiku? Perhaps the cupped hands of a child hold a brooding male, or the gentle rolling of a log reveals a group of millipedes feeding on a mushroom. Or maybe the exposed community consists of unrelated species—maybe even arthropods representing different taxonomic orders, like a roly poly, a spider, and a millipede—formed into a "family" by a child's imagination. We are drawn in by the child's curiosity and love of the natural world.

There is a pleasant visual relationship between the first and last words of Scarlett's haiku. The l's, t's and i's are reminiscent of the legs of a millipede, rolling across the page. The poem also sets a gentle and caring tone, with words like ‘little', ‘life', and ‘family'. The last line also provides a compelling twist, capping the tension built in lines 1 and 2. What sort of secrets will the little hands expose?! The lives of millipedes.

13 - 17 Honorable Mentions

bell rings
we dig for treasures in mulch
roly-poly gold

–Belanjoi Besa, Canada

This haiku is rich in sensory experiences. We hear the clang of a ringing bell, smell the mulch's earthy plume, eye the gold and the gray of the roly-polys, and feel the tickle of roly-polys and the humid pulp of litter in our hands. The excitement, even urgency, present in this poem, grabs the reader's attention and does not let up until the end. We find our treasure, our gold. The phrase "roly-poly gold" provides fantastic euphony and unique imagery. What a surprise ending!

Adult Laureates 

concentric circles
in the rock garden...
antlion pit

–Stewart C Baker, United States

The first two lines of this haiku bring to mind a peaceful and serene environment — concentric circles in a rock or zen garden. The last line abruptly changes that perception of serenity, if you are familiar with this insect's natural history! Antlions are not ants, as perhaps suggested by their name (nor are they lions), but rather insects more closely related to lacewings and owlflies (Neuroptera). Larvae of many species exhibit unique predatory behaviors, creating steep, conical pit traps in sand. The larva buries itself at the base of the trap, and lies in wait for prey to stumble in. The larva may even toss sand at passing insects, in attempts to knock the potential prey into the pit. If successful, antlion larvae subdue prey with a pair of toothed, venomous mandibles. To build these pits, antlions travel backwards in concentric circles, tossing out sand until the sides of the pit are steep enough to prevent prey from escaping.

We loved that this haiku featured a unique insect and its exciting biology. The poem also provides stark juxtaposition between the peace of a rock garden and the turbulence of an antlion pit. Upon several rereadings of Baker's haiku, we arrived at the conclusion that it is impossible to be sure whether humans are raking concentric circles in the sand for purposes of creating a contemplative space for others to enjoy and appreciate, or if the antlion larvae are creating the concentric circles for purposes of survival. In reality, both may be happening simultaneously, which says to us we not only coexist with insects, we even share some similar behaviors (albeit with different outcomes).

deepening clouds
an ant hauls two dead ants
to the midden

–John Barlow, United Kingdom

Ants are well-known for their eusociality. They exhibit a reproductive division of labor (queens lay eggs, while other members of the colony attend to other tasks), overlapping generations in a colony, and cooperative brood care. This suite of behaviors often results in sophisticated nests, with separate areas for rearing, for feeding and food storage, and for trash (leftovers, old cocoons, etc.). The trash heap is referred to as a "midden". These areas are usually located outside the nest, but some species, like leaf cutter ants (Formicidae: Attini), dig deep, internal chambers for refuse. These sites house non-ant insects (myrmecophiles), like beetles and cockroaches, who forage on garbage and largely avoid the ants. When ants die, their chemical profile (odor) changes, alerting other workers that there is some new trash (their now-dead sisters). 

 Here, under threatening skies, a worker carries two such dead ants into a midden. It is possible, likely even, that this moment is happening outside the nest, under the "deepening clouds" and witnessed by the poet or reader. At least one of us imagined this moment happening inside a leaf cutter ant colony. While the clouds deepened in color (and height?), a worker carried her two dead sisters deeper into the nest, to cast them into the midden. The scene plays out bidirectionally, high above and deep below the Earth's surface. The double letters and euphony of "deepen" and "midden" adds to the effect. 

Deepening clouds set a foreboding scene. Torrential rains and their associated floods threaten ground-dwellers, including ants, with disruption and fatalities. Perhaps this worker cleans house in preparation for the colony's response to impending inundation. Some ants move their colonies to avoid flooding, and there is no room for the dead in this undertaking. Maybe more ants will join these two in the midden before the day is over. The poem provides an example of wabi sabi, as we find beauty and emotion in nature's ability to deal with death and refuse.

Adult Honorable Mentions

rolling back gently
the decaying log
into its groove

–Jeffrey Ferrara, United States

Flipping rocks and rolling logs are common, almost universal approaches to exploring the natural world. These objects abound in almost every habitat, and turning them is like opening a gift. It is always a surprise, and it rarely disappoints. Rolling logs is such a common activity, in fact, that naturalists have established a set of best practices. The key recommendations are that you (1) minimize disturbance and (2) always carefully return the log to its former state (i.e., roll it back, to cover again what was underneath).

 This haiku reveals a moment where best practices are put into use. Logs take decades to decay. The subject of this poem has rested long enough to make a depression in the soil (a groove) and to acquire a rich community of organisms—fungi and arthropods for sure, plus maybe some small vertebrates—that act and interact (another kind of groove), to transform this resource and affect the community around it. This haiku exemplifies the spirit of our special category, without any obvious arthropods. We also see a poignant example of wabi sabi, a beauty in the imperfect and transient, in renewal. We can smell the earth in these words and feel the soft cellulose of punky wood and leaf litter. Close your eyes, and you can hear their skittering and conjure an image of these arthropods as well.

fresh cut peonies
I ferry the ants
back to the buds

–Karin Hedetniemi, Canada

The association of ants with peonies (Paeonia spp.) is well-known, but the nature of this relationship is often obscured by folklore. Ants are attracted to peonies, in part, because they possess glands (extrafloral nectaries) on their stems that secrete sugary fluids. The plants do not need the ants in order to flower, however, as some gardeners suggest. Many plants, in fact, have extrafloral nectaries, which serve to attract natural enemies of herbivorous arthropods, like predaceous beetles, parasitoid wasps, and ants. The nectar is a reward that keeps beneficial insects around. If one renders the nectaries non-functional, for example in an experiment, the plant will not produce as many seeds (a measure of the plant's fitness). We refer to this kind of relationship as a "mutualism", as each participant benefits.

Having fresh cut peonies on one's kitchen table is a delightful part of spring time. The entire home fills with the sweet scent of these flowers. Truly a perfume unto itself. Whether or not the author knows about mutualism between the ants and the peonies, she is aware that there is some kind of relationship, and is hesitant to interrupt it for the sake of having fresh cut flowers. So she does some ferrying. Ferry suggests an ongoing, continuous process. Cars and people are ferried over a body of water until they reach the other side, and then the process begins again. 

In Hedetniemi's sketch of life haiku, or shahsei, we are privy to a moment of tenderness while she cares for (and carries) the ants "back to the buds," the euphony of which we appreciate. She does not brush them off and thereby leave them in a potentially damaged or misplaced state. An informal "best practice."

Thank you everyone for participating in the Hexapod Haiku Challenge 2025. We invite you to share the contest with friends, family, and fellow writers, and we hope to see you again next year!