I don’t want to be a band-aid.
Can I be an envelope instead, a message inside,
licked seal, placed in a mail box—
addressed, stamped, postmarked?

I’d much rather become a packet of seeds,
taken out one by one, lined up all in a row
in the ground, covered, stomped on,
watered and waited upon.

Or a para-glider, with the whole world below,
carried on the winds down, all the way
to the ground, carrying you with me.