If This Whole World’s Not Wasting Time, Then Heaven Knows What Is

In the fourth watch of your morning,
Starting from near midsummer’s light,

You browsed through stately old poets
While your daughter mined games inside.

The sun raised up a cloud; the cloud
Then blocked the sun, which thinned it out

So sun hit the ground, mining more
Damp out of needles, streams, and leaves,

And that started another round
With building up another cloud.

Things go on. A hummingbird rose
And buzzed in the blossoming plum.

Things go. Chip trucks roared down the road,
Forest grist for the paper mills.

It’s never still, but as songs shift
With the birds in the noisy trees,

It all changes at changing speeds.
Daughter yelped when her avatar

Tumbled into the End World’s void
But sounded amused, not annoyed.