Hoop goes round and round

and round

 

as if elders return

to roots lost,

wonder if all had to be.

 

Years are filled with

important things.

 

City kid, I cut old stunted trees

for poles. I would be better

served if they were young and light.

 

Heavier than they ought

to be, mirrors of me.

 

Stripping trees

I hear Siddhartha call

level knots, calloused hands.

 

A hidden stillness will look out

to surrounding womb of water

on an island. Electric current

that vibrated in city walls

 

will be replaced by a different

vibration around and around

and around the tipi.

 

The certitude of circle

will never end.