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.