The clock struck once at a lost time of quiet
when the world was busy discussing
the cause of the end, the height of a giant,
and a length of a trailing string.

She tapped and she wrought and fumbled to life
a stone that sung in her cognitive silence.
It was perfectly round, glowing soft and then hard;
its sound an orchestra of its fragments.

It leapt up in the air and exploded
with a light like that of the sun.
She wailed with delight at the blindness
‘fore she knew that her time had now come.

In the mess that remained was a quiet
interrupted only by water that flowed.
Then came the shoots of a burgeoning plant
from the magical seeds that she’d sowed.