A Poem a Day (685): Circling

 
 
Always, it was to drift, circling,
an eagle in flight, place to place
amid spaces, finding form in motion,
being just to be and breathe
simplicity, outside the spin
of a world in chaos.
 
Sneak inside to the quiet,
tip up the shade and hide.
The blue mountain sits rigid,
the amber sky continues to stare down
and the dusky sea is ever in roar.
Anchors in, and we are still.
 
The signpost points myriad ways,
with and without direction,
here, there, and the wherewithal.
Seeking the compass, due north,
we stand. Breathe in the sea air,
taste the salt. And wait.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 30, 2024