The earth has wheeled again around the sky;
a dozen months have cycled in their turn.
If we could watch the revolution high
above ourselves, then maybe we would learn
our planet’s like a dandelion heart:
The stem is spun between the maker’s hands;
our days are seeds in gossamer that part
from us as spinning energy expands,
and fly away in strands of spider fluff,
like ashes, dust and memories of youth,
that settle randomly but sift enough
upon our shoulders that we feel the truth
enkerneled in the days of every year,
and never known until they disappear.