What does it mean

when droves of insects with silvered wings
cellophane the air with their flying?

What does it mean when leaves blow backward
and petals leave reddened thumbprints on the ground?

What does it mean when in the frame formed
by fingers I glimpse a boat floating out to sea?

Crickets begin their chorus as the moon lifts,
thin disc of metal hoisted by invisible pulleys;

and I grow pensive with all the birds that come
to roost in the crook of the crabapple tree.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.