Dispersal

Remember the garden as mud
                 before grass unrolled its green,

and tiny bodies wove white
                 hammocks below the kitchen sill:

we marveled at coiled filaments on vines
                 before we even knew how sound carried

along trellises of wire. A cut of lime 
                 coud freshen the dank air and rub

clear spots on a pane of glass. We thought
                we could tame beetles by whirring them

on bits of string, then set them in wars of our
               terrible devising. Little seed pods cracked  

against the teeth, their sound seething smaller  
               echoes of thunder. But we were not 

banished from this world— something called,
               and we simply needed to answer.