resemble souls, the flash of color
in twilight dark, where cardinals hover
in the green, like discovering the holy:
A whistling meteor of love sought
If bugs can feel a kind of love
If an insect feels more than shove
and push and live and eat and ought
to know the eggs they leave will
be their legacy among the rotting wood
The soul of them, the spark that stills
the hearts of children, gathering good
Dancing in the night grass, they will
clap their hands, and shriek at starlight blood
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