Under the Wheel

April sends her sun sublime
to paint the land in tiny splashes green
while I choose darkened poet’s grotto;
drawn shade and pen inanimate.

I refuse reminders
of impending life renewed;
of resurrection miracle, or hope of your surprise;
a call, a sudden knock…
something so mundane
it cannot belong to the impossible.

I shirk sounds of wheels
spinning, of cyclic seasons’ push
and pull and turn tenacious.

As top becomes bottom,
I am corpse of bones
crushed and swept into the quiet air of equinox.