Dervish

A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head
Neither cares
They keep turning.
-- Rumi

I am the doorway through which memory enters...

In a flash, it all comes back:
the backyard bliss
of bare feet plundering the grass,
of arms outstretched,
of head back and mouth open to the sky as I spin.
My nose fills with the scents of summer,
fresh cut grass,
fruit left too long on the vine,
and my mother calls me in from play,
decades late for dinner.
The world dissolves into
a smear of blue and green
around me,
wind whistles in my ears
and swirls across my skin

I am a top skittering madly across fresh-cut grass,
Whirling in ecstasy

Drunken rapture
and my feet trip over blades of grass
and I stumble and fall over
like a faulty gyroscope.
On my back, my soul eddies
in my chest and shoots outward,
causing the sky to spiral above me.
I am turning without moving,
still in motion.
This is what I have been missing

I am a compass at true north,
heart spinning wildly for I have found my way home.

How could I have lost this bliss?
This joy forgotten until I found
words on paper to bring
it whirling back to me.
If I could only spin fast enough,
I could turn back time and return
to those carefree days before
bill collectors,
demanding bosses,
indifferent lovers,
broken dreams

I am the hands of time, stopping for no one
and turning ever forward

© Elle Lassiter, 2004