i am laying in the grass

and thinking about

the simplest of things:

a ladybug in my palm—the universe

condensed by its mother

into a shell so small and red;

a frantic moth,

battering itself soft against

a porch light,

drunk on voltage.

even in its panicked dance,

a prayer.

i fold my piece of Heaven

into a crane and let it nest

in my hair—

as the Earth had folded hers

into a woman and tucked her away

here, between redwood arms.

i will attend to these things

until the season is over,

or until the crane flutters off

into swirling clouds of pollen

mimicking nebulae,

the expanse of everything.