Meal

I stir the sugar into my oatmeal
And watch it brown, even as I stir,
An action which forever seems to seal
The fate of this small bowl, for if I were
To turn about, and stir it once again,
The brown would only mix more thoroughly;
There is no way to stir it back to when
The two were placed into it separately.
And so the bowl will hurry towards its grave,
With entropy increasing all the while,
For there is no way now that I can save
The white oatmeal, or grainy sugar pile:
They are forever mixed, and will be so
Even when eaten, as I will soon know.