It’s a great mystery-
the journey of a cycle
and the parenthesis that is
neither a beginning nor an end
but what we fear.

I saw a leaf unfold to curl;
A man turn to a child.
I saw a new one form
and the eyes of a man
in those of another.
Must we fear the unexplained,
or reduce spirit to a person
for can a cycle not exist
in the depth of another cycle?

We remember memories we don’t own,
on sunny afternoons,
passing exchanges, certain places,
Vivid as the ethereal sunlight
refracting another life in our eyes.
Are we masters of our own deception?