The earth has wheeled again around the sky;
a dozen months have cycled in their turn.
If we could view the revolution high
above ourselves, then maybe we would learn
our planet is 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 like strands of spider fluff,
like ashes, dust and memories of youth,
and settle randomly but sift enough
upon our shoulders that we feel the truth
that’s kerneled in the days of every year
and never known until they disappear.