“Diagnosis in Reverse” from 32 Poems by Kate Gaskin:
First, the witch turning from the door made of spiced cake and sugared almonds. Then the birds offering the bread back to the forest floor, the children skipping backwards into the gaunt yawn of the house as the mother’s long hunger begins to soften, her hearth dark with smoke. And then a spark, the children in the back orchard eating apricots heavy with juice. Pale cream in a bowl. A vase of primroses. Foxglove stirring outside the open window. The father coming up the summer path, easy with evening. Hansel humming. Fresh bread and long light, long light.
If you take the B-theory of time seriously, then however much goodness there is in the world, the first derivative of it is always zero. Anything that gets worse is just something that, in reverse, is getting better. Anything that gets better is, in reverse, getting worse. We have no reason to privilege later states over earlier ones, and vice versa.
In an admittedly inconsistent style, I find this fact reassuring when I fear things getting worse, and simply don’t think of it at all when I notice them getting better.