Merry-Go-Round
Spinning on the metal wheel.
Dented, antiquated,
it moves in perpetuity,
remaining stationary.
Why am I hanging on
with white knuckles
when there is a horizon all around
running parallel to
this tiny circumference?
A clean horizon.
Here, rust creates decay,
boring voids into metal
rimmed with sharp, orange edges
that make me bleed.
Parts gleam with a silver glare
in the afternoon with beauty
that blinds. I rest my bare
skin, getting burned.
I move just a little,
weary. I close
my eyes.
I leap . . .
Onto the expanse of grass,
my long strides
propelling me forward
in a straight line toward
the horizon unending.
I move across the field with
an energy fed, not scorched,
by the rays overhead.
I feel the earth
beneath my feet
like a spring filled with life.
Millions of microbes.
Decay becomes sustenance
because it has somewhere to go.
I bound over a rotting log, splash through a muddy river,
imitate the barred owl, and throw my arms open wide
to the flashes of raindrops
washing over me from
clouds rich with moisture.
I close my eyes, face up to sky . . .
I open my eyes,
looking down.
White knuckles.
On hot metal.
I move, shift.
Just a little.
