II.

It is the cycle that penetrates
and opens in the quiet hour. I
hear the grinding earth wheel
around the sun once more; oaks
sprout, the future appears through
washed away mud. The mind
remembers itself in a multitude of
poses; a golden chain through rings
we have made. They glower in the
dying sunlight to reveal pictures
of everyday life lost to the speed
       in things.

We do not say, yay/nay, but merely
sit in the house of the old and talk
       about the coming season.