Doesn’t the world end every night
when I sleep? Doesn’t the dream world
end every morning when I wake?
In both worlds the noise of people, the silence
of clouds & trees, the silence of birds
except when they think I don’t see them,
of turtles sunning until they see me,
the noise of plum trees, all white clamor
while underneath their bloom they’re hiding
bright green leaves. What’s an end
but a new cycle? Elements churn,
bee turns to blossom, worm turns
to robin, atoms migrate, the Arctic melts
to warmer & warmer seas. What’s broken
supplies the parts, the hole waits
for filling, a bluebird’s egg a snake or
starling’s next supper. Pollen’s drift
is nectar spread for sun, for rain.
Age, weather — the least of gods.
