The Wheel

by Renwick Berchild

Inside this cir – cle, ten billion hands are pushing,
wheeling us around the universe,
searching for the light.

We have the torches, but the stars
we are not yet alighting, our agency stunted
by the promises of a silent creator.

From my window, I am watching the spectacle;
it is a ring of fire, plowing over the land,
a racing bright wind, burning and eating.

I wonder aloud, “Should I be joining them?”
Am I an abandoner? I’ve wrung my hands over this.

There are cir – cles, that I find myself running,
tracks of moss laden paths and waters
that always push me back to the shore.

I wonder to myself, if mountains could talk,
how would they talk of us amongst themselves?
If I spoke to a mountain, would it hear me, I wonder.

Cir – cles sit in the pine bark, cir – cles skirt
around the moon, cir – cles
are my eyes, my fingerprints, my dreams,

I draw them upon white paper as roaring circles,
two arcs I link like four hands, the moment before

a – merging, embrace.

I cannot break from my middle nature, observing
the wreath spin round and round, as though I was a planet,
ten billion satellites orbiting,

locking me away from the big wide dark.
This cir -cle ending, bringing me back to the beginning.

How many times I have had the same vision. Same ache.


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