ScatheMote

Like leaves who could write a history of leaves
The wind blows their ghosts to the ground
And the spring breathes new leaf into the woods
Thousands of names thousands of leaves
When you remember them remember this
Dead bodies are their lineage
Which matter no more than the leaves

Like crickets leaning on their elbows in the hedges
Tiny dried up men speaking pure light

Like locusts lifted rippling over fields on fire
Fleeing to the river
A hanging banner of insects trying to outfly flame
They hide by drowning

Like when god throws a star
And everyone looks up
To see that whip of sparks
And then it's gone