We drift, snowflakes and stars,
never melting, forever burning,
the scent of flowers and fresh dirt
propelling us along once-invisible
veins of travel, now illuminated by
the spring sun—ancient pathways
leading to the unknowable, the terrible,
the beautiful.

We spin, swarm, coalesce, fall apart.

One of us clings to a single-stranded spider’s web:
trapped, wings fluttering frantic
as he awaits his death.
Above us the grackles circle, shrieking obscenities
to one another in the tree branches,
hoping to catch us in their fierce beaks,
a speck of protein, a flash of fairy wing.

But still we leave the safety of old wood
and soft dirt, the safety of the underground.
One after another, we launch into the future
blazing with sunlight and sunshowers
and the honeyed whisper of jasmine blossoms.