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.