Exercising inertia

These are the wheels
that turn and
who is it that feels
the turning?

Only the wheels?

I hear the chanting,
see the fox
the buffalo panting,
the mist that rises above the
morning lake

this is the first of many steps
I must take.

In the sacred fire where the
dreams lift me higher
and the evening fades into
the song of a choir
the wheels turn.

If I have yet to see them
it is
because I am among
who are grounded to
earthly pursuits.

and the song,
‘for every season, turn, turn’
rings true
and the wheels turn through
three hundred and sixty

who is it that picks me for this trial?

If I dare to swear on the oath of a
God that no one thinks exists
does that bring me to the edge of
some cliffs that stand on the ends
of his world?

what will be my plea?
I’m not guilty.
it was not me?

who can see the wheels that turn in this
who could among the many feel
such bliss?

It will when all things are considered
be considered quite considerable
leaving me miserable, but
the wheels will turn again
bringing me back again
to the fox and the buffalo
and the lake that I know
is there.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.