Time’s Arrow Yet Again
as snow falls silent, deep, and slow throughout
the night, and not a person doesn’t fling
his imprecations at the sky in doubt -
for they might never hear a robin call
outside an open window, or feel air
warm and moist as flowers dying fall,
young mayflies rise, irresistible fate to dare.
This ancient earth seems like a silent rock
upon its pinions, fast held to depend,
and our impatient fiddling with its lock
distracts from all careening to the end.
Even now we find it helpful to distrust
time’s power to work all living things to dust.
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