I bare my feet to the sand
on this glass-bottom labyrinth
spinning lazy whirlpools
into the still center
that’s still center
even as it follows the white-pine funnel
hula-hooping this way and that
across the lawn along the west.

My feet bear the complaint
of minor uprising
cones and needles
that less protest than profess
their subdued part in this familiar
but not yet wearied
journey to the heart
where waits a stone, a pause, a bow,
then the pivoting heal
sometimes jaunty
others heavy
that rewinds the whole ball of yarn
from the other end of inside.

Likely I wouldn’t be so fond
of repeated circle walking
if it weren’t for the loopy doodles
you keep drawing in my life
every time there’s a little silence.