I hold the passengers in my hand:
perhaps winged seeds, or frogs
the size of buttons. Sleepy bees
plump and dusted with pollen.
Inside my closed fist there might
be hummingbird eggs no bigger
than coffee beans. Or limpets
on their way back to sea. Maybe
acorns. Maybe insects emerging
from transparent molts. Beneath
my fingers I could be carrying
spores. Pink bodies of baby mice.
If I open my palm, I could offer
these beings to the water, earth,
or air. None of them mean to stay.