The Wheel Of Recurrence Poem by Lynn W. Petty

I read her book of poetry, more pamphlet than a book,
But, what I found was more profound
Than Tasso's tome of verse.
Her works, a cultivated islet, bordered on all sides
By harsh, discordant fields of bramble-verse and tangle-rhyme.
Precise as to her choice of plants, to permeate the mind.
Exact, as to variety, portrayed in vivid tints.
She critically placed stepping-stones to stroll
The spectrum of her visual design.

Immersed within the golden haze of autumn's pensive light,
She wrote the smothered passions of her restive, anxious soul.
It was an Indian summer, but frost had filled the air,
For one could feel the winter in the climate of her words.
Dormant lies the garden patch, fallow are the fields,
Seasons in succession pass, as nature turns on wheels.
In regulated measure, bound by springtime's pulse,
Assuring continuity to worlds of living things,
The earth rotates to spring once more,
And flowers bloom again.

The hurt and pain of summers past, like stubble, stalks, and straws of grass, immersed in winter's rain and snow,
Become the humus of our grief, through which the seedlings
Of new hope may grow. Within the murmuring meadow sounds,
The white sun bees, laden with the pollen of her thoughts,
Add their lazy hum, and all September's sorrows soften
In the sweep of passing time. Upon the wheel of endless dawns,
The old is ever new, for in this mystic cycle, creation knows no loss, As with the child who wrote this book,
Her beauty knows no end.



By: Lynn W. Petty