Lanugo

Almost May.
Not nearly as warm as our truer hopes,
"but the garden needs the rain"
state the hollow voices
from the miasma of our earlier rendition.

But the mist in the cold
in the yard where we stand
clings with odd alacrity to our arms, our hair,
gleaming as they do.
They're perfectly round.
Perfectly.
And just look at them...
Behold them:
alive, expectant. 

And this,
this!,
is their diaspora.
This excited convergence
is their momentary departure
from themself(ves). 
This is why they twinkle,
this is why they possess joy.

And maybe, too, this is lanugo.
Today, of all days,
to be cloaked in whatever is
the Lord
and wonder and
wander
and maybe this, this mail of gleaming perfect spheres
is a shroud of infinite significance
and nothing less than a perpetual valediction
to our questions,
our perfect questions,
gleaming with anticipation
of answers that we cannot now know,
only quietly sequester the notion
and the hope
that this is our only diaspora.