Someone had to raise us. Someone
Fed us and must be keeping us
Alive. We have labels for this.
A label is made to apply.
A label can become detached.
If we spot one floating along,
We assume it used to belong.
It’s too easy to get attached,
To think of stars as ancestors,
To think of the soil as mother,
The sun as father, the chorus
Of winds as gossipy elders.
No such parents. That’s apparent.
The fact of puns gives us away.
As soon as there’s a name for this,
This becomes whatever we say.