The left side of a circle
Is clearly opposite its right.
But how does one side
Arrive at the other
Apart from a movement
So consistent and so same?
Yet movement remains.
Seasons are circles:
Completed to be repeated.
Fall to winter,
Winter spring;
Green to red
To brown to bare
Before the reinstatement
Of flower-filled air.
Books are circles—
At least the good ones.
Cover-to-cover,
As they say,
When “The End”
Makes you want to
Begin again.
School is a circle:
Learning curves —
One after the other—
Until graduation,
Then graduation again,
Then graduation again—
Before the real exam
Begins.
Life is a circle:
Young,
Then old,
Then young
At heart,
Then breathing for the last
First time
Before we depart.
And its ruggedness may conceal it,
But the cross is a circle too:
Intersection toward infinity
As we are made new—
Drawn into the movement
That smooths the edges of shame
Stacked confession
On repentance
On forgiveness
On again.
For fallen leaves turn to birds,
Stories are more than words,
And birth transcends earth
When we walk in circles
Spiraling heavenward.
Categories: Arts