Where do they go?
Capsized cradle womb.
When finished arranging dates, are they left in bins to drift into soil and water supplies,
To be drank and consumed, and absorbed by cells,
Fresh and new.
Are they burnt? The jigsaw piece foetus, climbing above the ozone layer and into orbit,
Spinning dizzy and without warning, leaking back into universe.
Do they burrow in warm tree sap and burst into the leaves, taking up sun and moon into opening gaping mouths,
Silent with premature lungs.
Do they return to you? Slowly crawling back to the womb, forming tiny eyes in particles, opening blood and bodies,
Ready to be replaced, collecting dust.