The Spiral of Circles

Each day folds back upon its seam, A wheel of breath, a woven dream; Light returns where shadow lay, And dusk redresses the robes of day. What was begun comes round once more, A tide retreating to its shore. The years are rings, translucent spheres, Lanterns strung on the thread of tears; Each season sways with borrowed flame, And whispers softly its secret name. So small the shift, so faint the hue, That change itself forgets what’s new. Lives, vast circles, nested deep, Turn in the chambers where echoes sleep. We walk them straight, yet find the bend, Where every edge returns to end. The gate we sought, long closed and sealed, Stands open now, its truth revealed. For circles are restless, never confined, Glass upon glass in the loom of the mind; They lean, they layer, they shimmer, they climb, Spirals of silence, architects of time. No stair, no rail, yet still they rise, Through unseen halls, through mirrored skies. To walk their rim is to walk the whole, To trace the outline of the soul; To pace infinity’s fragile room, Where breath makes music, and walls assume A pulse, a glow, a sentient grace, As though the void recalled its face. And when a circle splits in two, When symmetry breaks, as all must do, When time itself forgets to spin, And silence quakes from deep within, It is the soul that tears the seam, To free the captive from the dream; It presses feathers in trembling hands, And whispers softly its one command: “You have walked this ring enough, Step through the stillness, and breathe again.”