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.