All White Clamor

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.