Only where fences fall down,
where continents spread their flimsy gear,
where small ponds, trout dancing
their lives away, stagger
and reel and die.

Ants, whole civilizations
of them, near Asiatic, ravage greenery
and flesh and fur. A sound
begins, subtle
as a snake.

A mountain teeters into its
one hundred and twenty-thousandth century,
finally tiring of it all. An egg,
in a tree fork, begins
to open.

My hand flings a rock
a thousand times older than thought.
It skips neatly on water that’s
been recycled three billion
times, then some.

Where Pluto has been, careening
on the absolute edge, outermost as
my mind will let it be, refined to powers
that numbers expend,
a shadow starts.

Beside the back door,
where robins hustle time, and worms
early till the tired soil, where a daisy
dares to root dowser-deep, my son
starts his memory.

Tom Sheehan recently had a mystery novel released, Death for the Phantom Receiver, (PublishAmerica) and a collection of poetry, This Rare Earth & Other Flights, (Lit Pot Press). He has five other books published, four Pushcart nominations, a Silver Rose Award from ART and has many print and Internet appearances of poetry, short stories and memoirs.