The wheel was spinning long before I came —
someone lifted me aboard, I gripped the mane.
Small hands, tight fists, the world a smear of gold;
just holding on was all I had, I'm told.
Then strong enough to loose my grip and lean,
arms wide, head back, the blur a joy obscene.
I caught the eyes of others on their horses,
sure the brass ring would alter all our courses.
The ring was brass. The orbit held its arc —
each turn a year, each year from light to dark.
I watched the watchers fade, and understood:
they'd spun their suns, and called the spinning good.
Now motion stills. The blur becomes a face.
The wheel returns me to the larger grace.
The wheel was spinning before I arrived.
It spins on still. I was the spark: alive.