The Machine

Poem

The slow spinning cycle turns,
And the needle quivers its way back
To true north.

This machine of mediation
Weathers the winds and rains
Of inevitability

On sunny days of serenity
Its relevance is questioned:
Necessary? Still?

Overtures to dismantle
Clear the space for something else
Come in whispers

But the clouds gather
A wary eye turns to the skies
‘Do your work.’

And the cogs whir
And the leaves fly
And the path is clear.

more by VK LYNNE

photograph by Todd Downs

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