We gathered on the doorstep
with the moonlight,
dazed by the balmy night,

yearning for the alfalfa and
wild roses, getting ready to fly

away. If only we knew an ol’ man
would spray the kill-mist,
cussing, “Teenage box elder bugs!”

If only we knew snowstorm would
pass through our way. In spite of
all that calamity,

some of us still hanging in
there. Like the ancients, we’ll
rebound; multiplying stars
in the purple field, redolent.

by Byung A. Fallgren