I heard of a cicada whose eggs lie dormant
underground for seventeen years.
I don’t know why it is seventeen years
but a molecule of carbon will
be alive forever.
A rock will be alive forever.
Today a rock tomorrow mineral in the soil
and then next Tuesday a wisp of cornsilk on my kitchen floor.
You can never step on dead ground
and even the beginning of Spring, with all its flurry of seed,
is the end of winter
and the draining of water
across a bare ribcage.
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