by DCDave

Spinning in Ptolemaic epicycles
Against a pale blue canvas,
This wood that climbs from my hand
Defies the Cosmic Plan
And cuts the swath of man.

Like the earth exhausting its energy,
The disembodied wing,
The alien artifact
Achieves a graceful apogee,
Then spirals from the sky
And finds a place to die.

From hunger, Then from wonder,
The ancient kinsman hacked and shaped
The brute material,
And slowly,
Found that he had wrought
A shaper of his thought.

Now the sickle swings around
Exactly as it's thrown,
And the thrower
Is a sower,
Reaping what he's sown.

David Martin

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