The verse sets two creatures side by side: butterflies flashing their wings in the sun, and ants moving in quiet formation across the courtyard. You probably already know which one your body has been imitating lately, and which one it actually needs. The stick reflects a tendency to chase wellness in bright bursts, the new regimen, the dramatic cleanse, the weekend of rest meant to undo three months of neglect, when what your health is asking for is something far less photogenic: small, repeated, on-time movements that nobody applauds.
Notice that the ants in the poem scatter and assemble, advance and retreat. They are not always working. They rest, they wait, they read the weather. Your body has been trying to tell you something similar through the symptoms or fatigue that brought you to the cylinder, and the verse is asking whether you have been listening to its rhythm or overriding it. A 中平 reading here is honest news. Nothing is collapsing, but nothing will improve while you keep treating wellbeing as a project to finish rather than a season to live inside. The healing the stick points to is undramatic, which is exactly why most people miss it.