Life requires less consciousness than drive.
A baby, Aristotle, and a rock;
and all the bees in every extant hive;
and, through a closet, darkly, Mandy’s sock
employ simple compounds (CO2
and thinned glutaric acid or some such)
to set up store, and eat, and grow, and screw
encouragements to sticking points that much
resemble little souls as they ascend
the rills of time to rampage in the sun
and then to die. We watch their cells descend
to molecule and atom when they’re done,
their drives expired, their dreams returned to stock
for others’ use when others wind the clock.

The clock, call it Creation, or a curse,
ticks on for aeons making no one wise
including those who notice it in verse.
Its whys elude the lawyers who advise
the rest of us, for money, about how
its bells toll telling tales we all ignore.
A moot point, Mandy. Stand, and take a bow
and pull another pint, then come and bore
your own way to eternity; come tell
us what you know of how the sweet life’s less
than permanent for people and for shells
while being still immortal. I confess
your wisdom shines, although you are inept
in finding terms for life I can accept.

Dawkins calls Creation little steps
that, building on each other, can progress
without a large Creator’s hand to schlep
evolving life along: the scary mess
of living things (old Greeks from CO2,
and rocks that talk, and mammals who eat eggs
of crows who eat the eyes of lamb and ewe,
and two-faced singers prancing on two legs). 
Stop listing, Mandy. Dawkins made his case
and does not need our twitter to confirm
he might be right. But, when I watch your face
as you tuck in our children, I affirm
there’s more to life than we can ever learn
and love’s a gift no deeds can ever earn.