The Spins

Originally written 1 November 2015 | For someone that used to smoke cigarettes.

And how that spin would thread in the eye,

Of a needle, or storm, all taciturn forms,

That tempt every vision with tempests, a stitch,

Time making monuments of every gift,

Each forgotten place -- [a serenade or a garden],

Undone; all lost to some hour,

We sure marked as "absurd"; how idle,

Both stilled we the dream at hand,

To doubting and daring: no deed we'd command.