Creation

Creation

Your poem is that bug in winter,
eggs from the fall to the spring,
a message like that in the string,
the seed in the linking of the unknown
to the annual in the annual basis,
to the child growing by the swing.

I come later, and read in the spring,
learning that you wanted to bring,
and what happened over the winter,
that to you was always known,
in your poem’s vivid places,
and I cry over that ended fling,

And the message, it can make me sing,
remind me I’m lucky to come after winter,
that I’m connected and not alone,
in a state of happy stasis,
the message, like a found lost wedding ring,
found amongst mud and slush, and everything.

Found around the end of winter,
telling us about the fall and last spring,
how we came to be, and where we called home,
where we might find funny familiar faces,
and why we will lose our wing,
and why the loss will not, in the least, sting.

Yes, this poem is a bug in winter,
seeds carrying us from the fall to the spring,
like the message in the DNA string,
the egg carried to where butterflies roam,
an annual blooming on an annual basis,
plucked by the child that left that swing.