The real worlds naturally start with spring
And so are out of phase

My made-up world starts in pitch and cold

The Chinese have their own beginning
So did the Mayans but that’s over now

Maybe at the deepest bottom of the ocean
Where life eats heat
A different beat
Enforces a rhythm
Strange and discrete

Or in the darkest caves
The blind fish
Have only the water’s splash
To make now from past

A mother of eighteen