Our eyes are different colors, seeing separate
shades of sky, shapes of clouds,
stars that turned to dust before we were born,
before our blood had veins to hold it;

we have no true home – no hovel, no hut.

We scour fields for soft grass, for thickets
of sleep. We are seeds seeking shallow beds.

There are those that hunt for us, catch
our scent, our glint in sun or moonlight, our
hues glowing. When the temperature is right,
we bloom & heave heavy breaths. Sharp eyes
pierce through moss & fireweed. Fingers, paws
& claws all outstretch toward us. Short tongues
envelop us.

By the time we drift onto soft
peat beds, we have no lungs left,
no breath to imagine.

We can only communicate through
temperatures, shades of red or blue,
mostly blue. Blue & white prevailed
across taiga. They claimed most any
layers of green or brown that might
sleep beneath, any more –
pale shadows hushed by frost.

“This isn't working,” some say, “the soil is all wrong.” All wrong – as if it will never change. Two centuries from now, we will blossom, bursting with ripe juice: we will be working.

“the long & cold winter is the dominant feature.”

Even if this is true, there are fires that burn for hundreds of years, swallowing forests whole, not raging, but breathing slowly, deeply, for decades, before falling asleep.