What the sky wants

What the sky wants
is what the birds swallow as they
plunge wantonly into the April hum,
splashing green gold across the treetops,
an ancient fire launched ninety-three million
miles to this sapphire suspended
impossibly in infinite silence, a fire
some microscopic portion of which lands
on these yearning spires of grass,
and me. And what the sky wants is
what it gives, simply joy as useless
and innocent and extravagant as the
indiscriminate blue I find in my arms.