And the circle, unbroken,
turns. Wheel within a wheel, spring
rotates through greening hillsides,
iris flags and rhubarb pie,
driving into summer dressed
its berry-best for wedding
parties beneath cathedral
skies. Autumn, bent heavy with
harvest-heaps of golden grain,
labours to gather itself
in. When winter’s wheel lets Earth
put up snowy feet, tired from
her annual production,
spinning slows, hibernating
heartbeat lulling all to rest.
Each intersects with its mate,
drawing one to its death, one
to its birth; each turn reveals
a sliver, an iota,
one grain more of its Master.