i, an eye.

eyes see
spheres within spheres

i was seeded in the womb of vision.  in the dream of sleep i woke.

i am the light.  i am the mothering eagle, the eagling mother, the gyre

of seeking, the seeking gyre of finding, the winding gyre, the gyring wind,

the lift of wing, the wing.  i am the manifestation. i am my home.


home!  home how, and where?  home from where wide and wakeful winds wind

wisely about, from where the north and south and east and west

are facets of one wind of winding air, and by yielding a little

each to the pull of the other, becoming each other little by little till at rest.


from where a circle spinning on its axis is a sphere? up here

where the birds make their nests out of circles they fly in the air?

where the sun make her planets of circles she spins in the sky?

where momentous minds spin out sentient circles?  eyes?  are we eyes?


yes, yes, eyes!  but it isn’t until i’m lost that i look for the inward,

the circle-making centre.  not till i’m spun out, winding wide

like a wind, like a planet, like a sun, do i find that i am

the centre-making circle, the centre, that i am the eye-making i.

many blue eyes blink at me, white throats chuckle.  golden is the hair

of this one’s beard. in his hand a brand, a blazing wand.  at his feet

the fire, the fire of the grove, the sacred grove, the hearth.  i can smell

the smoke.  i can see the sky.  i am flat on my back in the grove.

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