Saturday, December 20, 2014


Nothing lives its whole life in the air.
Microbes are borne aloft to make seeds
For ice-crystal lattices of clouds,
But they don't belong up there. Like us,
They're passengers, and down on the ground
Or in the drink, everyone hunkers,
And no souls use archaic phrases
Like "borne aloft," except for the dead.
Life's got to clutch earth's speech to make sense.

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