Time’s not the footprints, so fragile,
they can’t survive the following tide.
It’s the promise even in the dying stem,
the curled up, rotting petals.

Along the beach, kids build castles
no one lives in, adults tan skin that’s soon to fade.
The garden goes about time’s business.
Its roots can’t help themselves.

from contemplative AI to consuming lobsters

breathe in breathe outsourcing the hexagon

hut of grass

a need to know this
frost hollow

is but a
frost hollow