It turns like a
Buddhist prayer wheel,
clear liquid psalms sifted by the mill
that makes glassy mountain snow
into the parsed and perennial workings of
I turn and turn and turn,
catching the breeze with lustful lungs
to make royal rain and a breath of beatific
into the ceremony of peaceful Taoist tea.
The earth spins like a gyroscope Grail,
catching electromagnetic light and solar
golden orisons from a Pentecost of sun,
a ballet dancer whirling in the rhapsodies of love,
the grandest paroxysm of all, the budding leaf unfurled,
in the workings of what we perceive as world.
The waterwheel turns the seasons
while the moon makes gossamer loops
so that time and tide can be calibrated and sung.
Let all things turn and turn in due time,
for only the effortless workings of the
can transform the infant vowels of creation
into an epic poem with perfect meter and rhyme.