When molecules associate in bonds
and bind their energies in mortal strands,
we call that Life.
When those same molecules
anticipate new orbits and disperse
and selflessly dissolve into théir parts,
we call that Death.
What nonsense in these names!
We nag ourselves into unneeded dread
and fear each day we'll see the lattice lapse
into new patterns. They'll still be we-ús,
you-Í, we-thém, and something else brand new:
thin patterns on another planet's dew,
light wreaths that grace a forest creature's head,
or willows banking on a limpid stream;
neat birds, bright eggs, or clouds in children's dreams.
Holy Moly appeared in The Armchair Aesthete.