We're not going anywhere, not really.
We're a fiction in search of characters.
We're the remains of juniper branches
We burned in the hearth on the cliff ourselves,
Never doubting someone would come notice
Our damp, discreetly ashen black remains.
Here we were, bunked down with the pack rats, glad
For a bit of temporary shelter
We could pretend we could stand forever.
Every ant, every amoeba, every
Bacterium is an army moving
On its stomach, every stomach as greased
In its own fashion as the fat-slicked scales
Of well-evolved snake bellies whispering
Questions we pretend the Great God did not
Want us to answer or hear over here
In the heart of the garden we knew well
Enough to name in terms betokening
Wonder that any garden grew from stones
At all. Come. We must arise and go now,
If only because all nows disappear.