Layer upon layer, a mass of tarnished silver
Will be spread thick and wide
Across the exosphere.
The next wave of young lives
Will sing their songs and trace the steps
Of their grandmothers
Along ancient grooves worn deep
Into the paths before them.
The spirits of Last Spring
Will shoot out from their hiding spaces
To collect and devour the remainder of blown kisses
Offered to that holy season of revival.
And in the wake of all this
The greatest birth of all
Will be that of the
We will ever know.