A bee, for whom the sun is only a clock, alights on the purple petal of a violet. It is March. I learn how to walk. The fruit of the tulip tree, a flat wing of soft tissue, is carried through the air on a gust of wind. It lands beneath the flashy bracts of a flowering dogwood that turns bright red in June. It is June. I learn how to spell hello. Some miles away, an iceberg collapses into the ocean. Later, it will be November, the vacant branches of the cedar. It is later. The sweetgum holds onto its leaves. The black cherries emit their scent to dismay the incursion of caterpillars, sending warnings through the rootwork dispersed like wires beneath the earth. It is March. I find a clutch of gray hair in my beard. The milkweed unfurls its follicles. The pokeweed drops its horde of poison berries in the dirt. It is later. The heart loses its rhythm. The final box turtle dissolves in the mud. The skyscrapers linger above the treeline. When I am asked if I have any last words, I am only given a second to think.