I asked, what’s new?
What’s in a thousand years? What’s not?

I said, blood colored butterflies. Do jokes swim in the sea?
Not only the legs of summer clouds, but the shapes of dusk in rain puddles.

An odd number of stars, an even number of snowflakes.
And the universe, is that a nod? Yes, said the pine cones and lightning.

How I said, how should a tree, both its legs broken, fall to heaven?
How should the asphalt birds, when like fire on the eyelids, blink into branches of wings?

Who will take up this alphabet of dust and cast the old nets for the first time again?