Ths Spinner

 
Here I was, am, shall be,
tending the tree I planted,
by the well I built,
with water from my hands.

The clay under my fingernails
that wouldn’t wash off.

In turn my gaze, piercing volumes:
strata of stars and nestled nebulae,
maelstroms of filaments:
from roots to trunk to branches:
twigs, leaves, crown.
Birth, life, death.
All of my own, and none of mine.

There is, shall be, was no day,
no night, no time:
only the thirst, mine and the tree’s,
quenched by the well.

Both absolute darkness and light
thrumming out of my bosom
fluttering in strands about my robe
my fingers spunning like twine
woving into the tree’s roots.

In my reflection in the bucket
my eyes sparkling constellations,
seeing all around, through, across.
And back. All that was, shall be, is.

Seeking, and finding, and ruling, always.
Making sure that which cannot stop
shan’t be, wasn’t, isn’t, stopped.

Sleeping in turn but ever awake.
Vigilant, aware, keen.
Then, here, there.
Once, now, yon.

All is, shall was be, making sense
as one uninterrupted yarn
eased by the clay and the water
and the hands’ constant spinning.

The heartbeat in the hand touching the tree
his, mine, that of the space inbetween
the home, journey and destination,
the source of joy, grieving and sorrow.

Here I was am shall be
all and nothing and myself
between and the tree and the well.