Everything is changing so fast
like my children stretching upwards
even though I can’t sort out
how it doesn’t tear their skin
and algorithms
and robots
and even the forest floor
that looks at rest
is covered a week later
in tiny plants
jostling for light
and I read today
that when my son is sixty
his world will experience
a year of change
in eleven days
so it is that I keep a shell
in my pocket
the swirly former home
of a sea snail
and I am comforted
by the belief
that when I press it to my ear
as though I have paused everything
I can hear a replay
over and over
of what a slow-moving snail
last heard when he listened
to the sea.