A yarn ball and a hill
maintain an equipoise until
their neatness starts to bore the gods
of potential and energy
who hedge bets, reckoning the odds
of when the rest will be
set in motion, and who,
first stumbling upon this clew,
constructed both the incline and
the inclination to unwind.
Like most gods, though, they haven’ t planned
to stay; they mastermind
the scheme, ex nihilio,
then slip behind the shadow show
and designate an agent, chief
remaker of their mischief made.
Each time, disguised, this leitmotif
gets salvaged and replayed,
a universe begins,
for orogens and origins
suppose a Way Things Were before
some volatile, untimely That —
sweetness perverted by the core
or belfry by the bat,
or here, a hilly green,
whose still life, eerily serene,
completes their best contrivance yet:
from high above, a williwaw,
a hiss, and then the silhouette
of one terrific paw.