the sprouting of birds atop trees means the passing of beauty
and the people all know their time is scarce
who’s drinking wine out of whose mouth
the lack of breath one might feel as they are lifted
as they float, so elegant,
between the chords of existence and the seraph
as the rings of Saturn begin to shift and crack
precariously
as if to tell the world
“we are dying”
a life well-lived deserves nothing more than a funeral
for what is a grave, if not littered with petals from wilting gifts?
what makes a river differ from another, if not the whitefish and crocodiles
that may or may not fly over the sand?
i can save this time for when you’ll be a pig, and
when i’ll be a spider
maybe someday the stars might align just right
to form this long hall of light,
one which you and i
and all the little children may bask beneath
the carpenter doesn’t always get to finish his chair,
nor the mechanic his car,
the playwright, his play, but still
someone may take the wheel
and finish what the other has left behind
i wonder if ever there was a kid
who had no desire to be an astronaut,
who had no desire to frolic along the planets,
who never looked at the moon and wondered
only for a moment?
not at all