When in the throes of vigorous spring cleaning
I find myself permuting furniture,
the conservation laws acquire meaning
other mathematicians would abjure.
My wife and I have spent ten years together
and, entropy be damned, our energy
persists in ways not even Emmy Noether
saw when characterizing symmetry.
Touching my chin, I come to understand
the purpose in the angle of her frown—
a silent plea for me to lend a hand
and turn the hanging mirror upside down.
I tell myself, while humoring her whim:
Mirror rim, sides reversed, is mirror rim.