I wonder what it is
that the biosphere intends
when this happens: twins

then I realize
as I butter my toast
that nature, motherly, stern
she intends nothing at all
at most

no agenda, but
churn and do, and redo
with a twist and like
the chop and pan-rattle
of us rustlers in the kitchen

she’s up and at’em
before a morning thought
can get his shoes on