Circles (Poetry Audio/Text)

We strain to slow the pass of time,

halt the daily march and drill

that drives us sightless toward the end,

beyond that dark,

forbidding hill.

And here,

the remnants of our dream,

empty lodge,

cobweb and dust,

chipped and broken blue gourd cup,

forgotten and well used,

like us.

But herds still plunge down banks to drink.

Fruit falls full and overripe.

Fiery sun drowns in the sea

to rise renewed in morning's light.

We yearn to hold a bright-eyed gaze,

move our feet in supple dance,

smell the rain-fresh evening breeze,

wear the same worn shirt and pants.

For when this flesh dries into dust,

breath exhales becoming wind,

like white sage rising from the snow,

we'll circle round and sprout again.