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.