The Wagon Wheel

No one spoke is more important than another

Together they make the circle full

The wheel turns from ground to ground

Through the years it goes ‘round and ‘round

It goes from dust to dust

But the first dust is never the same as the second.

Like us it moves up and down

The road downward can become the moving on

And in the end, death can be our final gift.

It never felt like my parents would ever be gone

But now that they are, a gentle ache stays,

Reminding me of rough hands on the tractor wheel

And tireless hands shaping round circles of pastry,

Sweet smelling bales of hay lugged to the barn on wagon wheels

And round, delicious apple pies set out to cool.

At the old farm there were wagon wheels

Down over the bank nearing the little creek

I can still hear the voices of the little girls in long dresses

Bonnets and boots and giggles, as we pretended to be

Pioneers on a wagon train.

We covered a million miles on that old, dilapidated wagon,

Blood sisters with brown skin and dusty fingers,

But loving every minute.

Whenever I look at a wagon wheel

I am reminded of timeless joy

And my father’s wagon wheels lean proudly now,

Resting against the split rail fence by our lane.

cailin raine

2002