Lift me up on ribboned wings that vibrate in the breeze,
take me far from cherished fields, remembered scents,
let me pollinate the blossom on a tree that marks a windswept hill,
planted by an old man when he was young and in love with the moon.
Tell me the secrets of reproduction, of the tiny speck that finally breaks through,
the endless pulling apart and reforming, ever more complex,
until it is too heavy, and the fruit must be picked, the channel traversed,
the effort of splitting open soon forgotten when the sweet juice flows.
Let me rest here in the dappled shade, my lashes soft and spidery,
my limbs growing down into the earth like roots;
mushrooms will sprout in the slick places where there used to be flesh.
Gather my hair to line your nest; sharpen your beak upon my bones.