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All Change
opal

Revolution seems an inappropriate term to use
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in winter, when silence and stillness lie for miles.
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Days dawdle, half-awake. They lounge around
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in pyjamas and don't do their hair;
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only nights seem formally attired
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in spangled finery; the moon, a flat piece of silver
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to grace a little black dress, or a gambler's coin
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tossed through the dark.
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Life's business goes on underground or inside,
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unseen by most, yet all unfolds unnoticed,
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revolving and rotating towards that time
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when day will emerge - sun's first blush,
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clean as a daisy, fresh as a whistle
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for no reason at all but life's pattern,
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and then we dance our summer revolutions
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careless and carefree, out of doors.
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01/19/06

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