Frantic insects wait to die,
By this limitless Hand,
putting youth in a box,
With all the twisting shapes,
And  mysteries.

The second by second,
Unfolding of tiny events,
Collected in the labyrinth,
Between your ears,
Speaks warmth and meaning.

Holding hands under creaking trees,
Puts my spirit at ease,
To overlap and forget,
As these insects wait to die.