Faces to sun, dancing, bobbing, swaying
huddled together but singing freedom.
Singing islands of life whose only desire
is to live. A blurring whir, white, pink
yellow fragments of their own big bang,
existence exploding from darkness.

We are moved by the horror of death
when witnessing its deep infinite stillness.
Watch a squirming, writhing newborn,
sit with a cooling dead body if you can.
Perhaps no such thing, maybe simply the
remains of the living, flesh melting away

like warmed ice. Where does that water
go next? Islands of bright movement
in dark oceans of concrete. True life
makes more, everything else can only
crumble, wanting to rejoin the surge.
The wild flowers remind us, who we are.