Listen to poem:
Entropic Time
We know yesterday
by the crumbs left on the cloth
and warmth in the chair—
the future leaves no such trace
until entropy arrives.
A dandelion
lets go of its clock-face sphere
to wander, unwind—
each seed wings on its own way
yet can't return to the stem.
Past is what remains
when patterns loosen their hold
on the shape of things—
time is counted by the drift
from gathered into what's more.
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