The hardest of workers dash about, landing
from time to time on the aerial runway lit up

in salmons, whites, lemony peach, violets,
carmine rose, scarlet, bright purples and pinks—

one upon a tequila lime. Their seeded path
strewn in a sensible fashion winds ‘round

a small lily-pad-filled pond and a petite white house
where inhabitants sit and watch and welcome them in—

a spark of iridescence swoops in to say hello,
but the rest of us are so very still.