The Mandala Effect

My October backyard is quiet except
for the sound of work and blue jays.

In strict defiance of Occam's razor
every time I wake,
it's in a slightly different universe.

Like Heraclitus' river
was the Rubicon,
stumbled through bleary-eyed
and before coffee.

It might be 10 am, sometimes, before
I even notice the little changes.

A thousand cultural
events and artifacts

sliding over and
beneath each other
like puzzle pieces
in a shaken box.

The picture on the outside
still spinning
like a slot machine.

We, red-headed step-children,
beaten by noise and hurry,

even in this world
where we, right now, so far,
still have both
Leibniz and Kristofferson.

And so

I destroy the design
created by fallen foliage.
The impermanence of
spent fireworks
collected into piles

until

wind angry cairns
dot my yard
occasionally
making a fuss
with empty bluster.

I place the once
bright and brilliant
autumnal bones
of a too hot summer
into their drab paper coffins.

Because I believe in the notion

that what is true remains
even when Grecian urns
are deliberately
taken out of context

and also, Spring.