I AM THE WHEEL

. . .
I am the wheel.

Something about me
takes the backside dancing
over bumps, and ruts, and even angry glass
from young and hopeless men.

I roll and watch the world go round,
as my own life spirals
right before my eyes.

Trailer trucks have nothing on me.

They see the gray of roads that kill
the once lush landscape of our fields and hills.
When they pass the ocean, barrels of oil
are all that fill their eyes.

I have something better.
I see the fetus, swirling in its mother’s womb;
I see the whorl of blooms that draw the drunken bees
and fill the earth with flowers and sugar.

I see the roots below the ground
where worms and beetles swarm to make us grass.
I see the whole.

I am the wheel.
. . .