Circle-Song

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The field that wore the flower where

Its yield becomes a thoroughfare

Of unborn things while winter flings

Its coat upon Time’s rusty chair

…and fills each nook and crook and roof

With diamond-stars from bars aloof

‘Four-seasons worth of time tunes earth’

The rubric of a year its proof

...here, we from its allotment learn

The epic scope of no return

And what we know of hold-let-go

…the season-flow that fills its urn

…still, ever leads us back to where

We see the bud that breaks to bear

The bonny yield that fills the field

That sleeps beneath Time’s rusty chair

…and nook and crook and roof are brushed with diamond-dust where Winter rushed

To take a seat, put up his feet and fill his pipe with stars soft-crushed…

© Janet Martin