Time and time again A pendulum can swing back and forth And still somehow move things in one direction No such contradiction here I’m sure it’s been eight-oh-three now On more occasions than I care to count Endlessly The roses have started to wilt Faded, dried Then come back to life Drooping into death And furling back into anthesis Like a recyclable gift to the pollinators While these two spinning hands Give a great, big middle finger to entropy Trying their best to tick it off