GOLD

A perfect circle.
When the sun hits it, a trick of the eye
Solid, like a coin.

In one circle,
A tiny woman, naked,
Arms stretched overhead,
Legs apart.

In another,
A tiny man standing the same way.

Under the sun,
They turn on invisible threads.

They heat in the sun.

Now, they turn over fire.
The little figures burn

To black ash, and fall
To the black ashes below.

The wind picks them up.
Black specks in the wind the sun gilds.

See, the rings are spinning like hoops
Down the currents of wind

And the mists are the spirits of children
Chasing these wedding bands,

Their turn to be born.