Circled Cycle


On a low, pinkish horizon
double hunched hills sit
for at least a hundred Winters
The tallest peaks never take off
their white hats

In late spring, lost eastern wind
passes by, drumming short overture
to the goldfish blue summer
on brownish-green oak's strings

And that's what young robin
listens to on a long day, when
there is none to do,
but dream of love

At the early autumn's eve
western cool breeze comes laughing
over bald aspen tree down by wet,
narrow, shallow stream

Why? Who knows...
In the middle, vast
not always calm plains
well overbloomed
may rest awhile

And then same cycle resumes
When rainbow appears, new butterfly
hikes from cloud to cloud
and will over and over, whether
called for routinely, or not at all
as Monarchs usually do

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