Roadside, Creekside, Shade, British Columbia, 20 June 2018

The last afternoon of astronomical spring
Slipped away from the world of schedules,
One of those little loops like wormholes,
Not in time exactly, no not in worm-cored,
Moth-eaten metaphors of recurrence
And return, the fallen giants of the forest,
The rotten wood warming so many homes
Of little and medium and longer-lived lives.
A little loop in change itself, the church
In which time and schedules spontaneously
Generated, weevils in decaying choir lofts,
Yes, that was more like it. I was fooled
A long time by the faith of life in time,
Although not perhaps so fooled as some
Who thought to capture or escape
Their rhythmic, pulsing, measures. I thought
The measures were equal to the changes
Marked, not their peculiar siblings, cycles,
The vortices locally lowering entropy,
Clocks, schedules, worms, moths, trees.
In the church of change, life and time count
Among the many bastards there engendered,
Destroying as they were and would be destroyed,
Creating as all was and would be created.
Near the end of this one loop burrowing
Into the powdery soft woods by the road,
By the creek, in the shade, the carpenter ant

Poem trundled and blundered back into the light.