A Poem a Day (570): The circle

 
The circle
 
Walking into motionless lamp posts,
under ladders, black cats kneading
your heels like dough, seeking to trip –
we run the gauntlet east-to-west
in this incandescent kaleidoscope of hue
ever-revolving, ever-rebecoming
something new, a thing to be known.
 
You water it, this newborn plant,
skinny strapling reaching for the sun.
But only the moon shines. Agate charm.
It casts a glow where the sun can’t reach.
 
We dispel time, feel it stand still,
shake off our so subtle nuances,
count the creative fingers on each hand,
circle the index three times as if for luck.
Jump puddles, step outside the lines,
avoid endless cracks in paving stones.
 
And so our rebecoming hasn’t come so far
from when we were eight, closing the gate
lest our fathers race out and shout us down,
reminding us not to leave it open.
 
In this we have come full-circle,
staring into our own eyes, our own selves,
as we were when we were small
and had no idea of what we wanted to be,
or who we might become,
at all.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 23, 2023