In the veggie patch,
below the fig tree boughs,
a swarm of specks swirls in warm afternoon light.
They must have wings because they fly
in suggestive patterns and spiral purposes,
but anatomy is indiscernible in this miniature spectacle.
On my desk,
below daddy-long-legs’ webs,
there is a graveyard of specks, each shrouded in silk.
I suspect these specks are from the veggie patch,
but I cannot say, for they too are featureless in smallness,
and drained of vitality by the long-legged specks.
If I were now to step outside,
I could spectate the night sky twinkling –
a spectacular universe of specks,
yet each speck its own specimen.
I could speculate on their significance,
or simply respect this domed speck-spectrum.
Speckles of age grow on my skin.
A dark spectre hovers behind me
while below, granular Earth specks await my return.
I am but a bio-speck, on a small blue speck,
in a cosmic blizzard of specks,
yet I swirl with all others in pattern and purpose.