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She always spins, gripping with curled fists

Sending the metal flying on a rusty creak of rotating axel

A blue wedge, then faded red, and primary yellow

The spinning wheel with glimpses of a round, laughing face.

None of the other children can catch her.

 

She always spins, flinging her arms out and dodging trees

As she whirlwinds a path through the broken forest.

She dervishes despite her little fears

Flinging them centrifugally away until they melt

Into the whirring buzz of noise and color.

 

She always spins, on pointed toe

With graceful landings, and arched poise

Sequined leotard flashing in the white pool

Of the spotlight. She spins in harmony

With others, circles within circles.

 

She always spins, hands shaping the rim of a thick clay bowl

Her tired foot pumping the potter’s wheel

She sits and spins and smiles at her daughter

Playing on the hardwood floor

Chubby hands grasping to reach a worn, heirloom top.

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