IV: The World That Spins

The world that spins about its point,

That spun from loom these days,

The one from sun that does anoint

As thread from time decays.

I plucked a flower morning come

To save its life from woe.

It wilted under press of thumb

In dying afterglow.

Its soul through sweetly scented air

In secret met the gloam.

Such poor design, so frail this share

That beauty makes a home.

That afternoon we met at last

Though I with empty hands.

There time removed from us amassed

The knots it wove through strands.

Like vapor mist to sky dissolved

I wept at our good-bye,

To see your eyes from dreams resolved

With nothing to reply.

• March 2025