Life's IT

At times
Like the aimless tail of a New Year's streamer
at times, life's unwinding seems without purpose

IT

Starts in a playground
of mud pies
of empty miniature plastic cups
inviting neighbors and pets alike
for morning tea
and maybe
the throw of a dirt ball for play

By noon of IT's awakening
playgrounds have become gardens
where momentum tills new soil
colorful seeds find slumber
awaiting promised blooming

Once sundown rests on the horizon anticipating sleep's darkness
IT gazes upon toiled labor now dust
the swirls of the ringlet funnel reaching skyward
carrying lilac fragments now brown as coffee grounds
to distant playgrounds
of laughter's reprise
to gardens
of labor's renewal

Nights of reflection

Life's clock

The forever-winding of infinite beginnings