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

New life

The greatest birth of all

Will be that of the

Last Summer

We will ever know.