Maybe the Earth is just a flower in a garden
Swaying in the breeze, leaning toward the distant sun
Maybe all her creatures are mere insects drinking nectar
Minutes in the season of life that we call “Spring.”
Perhaps you and I are a pair of orange moths
Fluttering our wings, clinging desperately to land
When we fly away, the garden still will be here
For another pair of nectar connoisseurs to find.