In Air

what flies through the air
or floats without your caring?
as a child, you ran to touch it.

look slowly now
at wings pink and translucent,
at flapping pearls and darting sapphires,
the patterns of smallness drawn
like dragonfly blades whose veins
carry the genes of trees

as they spin in prime wind, helical godlings
detached and fragile, emeralds
that whirr unengined, seeking mud
like yeast flakes dropping
over a bowl of breadcrumb rain

without violence, they invade the ground,
armies caught in struggle, surging
against spiders’ roofs
in webs outspread on unswept leaves

even if you’ve no thought for seeds,
or insects,
and even if the winter brings
no table syrup, or your autumn is void
of red leaves, can you still see life
at the tip of your finger
and give breath back to its belonging
with all that flies native
through the air?


© J. Celan Smith