gave birth to a second first,

but it died quickly away.

Then the next,

Then the next,

but one fought to become a minute,

and time was only made up of those for a long while.

Eventually, one evolved to be an hour.

And then another.

And another

and the Mother was so proud of her children—

what they’d grown up into,

what they were able to hold in their ephemeral hands

that she shed tears made of forever,

and that was the first generation

to see a year dance itself around the fire.

Now, the Mother sits inside her sweater knit from patches of song

sung by birds that died out long ago.

Her babies have outgrown her,

looking forward, away from when she tries to point

to brother second or sister hour.

The decades especially have no time for her.