Spinning Boy Poem by Leon Moon

In a tender vine forest
A young boy spins
And spins
Asking
why?

Through a blurred stare
He asks the mirror;
Precarious in oak,
Why must these eyes
Glare back at me
And judge?
And he spun, and spun
Asking
why?

Parades marched near
In the towns around
With dancing artists
And jeering men;
Never coming close,
For he ran, sick;
And spinning
Asking
why?

The boy was alone
And couldn't belong;
Inherent youth, flowing eyes
And never still
But still - asking
why
To the space
around him
And above. -he thought- spinning
Asking
why?

Until - he was
Stuck, tangled
In a web of feather light illuminance,
Strung solid from liquid light
Of the moon
And blinding Sun;
In such a seldom state,
He struggled
And bundled to the floor,
Silent
upon his return

Through sitting
And sifting
Darkness
His dizziness dispersed;
Born into a vision
Seeking no clarity
He heard, and felt
The singing of birds
And the soil beneath him:
The wilting voice muffles

Now
the answer came
And he stood
upright;
The unquestioned space inside, full
Figured
without question
Answering
himself