This Gyre

As water coursed the chase, pushed
the great wheel that turned the stone
to mill our grain, and wind stirred the clouds
under an expanding sky,

the seasons tumbled
winter into spring
and meadows flamed
with sunlight and poppy red.

After market, at a Saturday dance,
you spun me across the green
until I fell dizzy
into your hands.

The waxing moon circles each night of stars
and wheat ripens in dry fields.
Our small boy laughs as the wagon
rolls to the stream,

and the years grind me
into a fine, vanishing dust.