Dark matter

Your gloved hands are slow and unfathomable as they cut through spider webs stitched between the bones of a nude blueberry bush. The boy, barely two, levels ant hills with his feet, stirring bedlam that is not as brief as it seems.
These things weigh more than we think. So he mourns the spiders and the ants before they disappear into the odd domain of dreams and memory. Your hands move like backhoes, digging up the moon. You say what happens in the universe happens in a blueberry bush.
He needs a bath, and won't want to go to bed. He'll take our questions for god instead. The webs and the hills will be rebuilt and removed, and rebuilt and removed again.