Span of Homespun Spinning

Our life spins and spins around a fiery star,

93 million miles from you, us and ours’--

(when you stop to think, it’s dizzingly far)

and then there’s these simple days,

each day (so much nearer yes)

spun like molten glass

whose colors drip and blend

as memory weaves and mends,

then often slips around a forgotten

bend while we don’t see nor hear

as daylight drops onto verdant tufts

and sunlit scents born of time’s

strange span, its vague timelessness

where children barefoot plopping tumbling

whirling dervishing

rolling through untimed afternoons

(stumbling too)

over endless fields of fresh mown grass

blooming orbs of clover building

a fragrant home

for vagrant bumblebees and our untamed hopes

soaring leaping 
buzzing roaming

forever spinning 
fiercely fast.