Week’s End

In the quiet intervals
Of Saturday’s forgotten hours
When the hints and echoes
Of solstice and dusk play
At the edges of the passing minutes
There is stillness not stasis
(Although such could be mistaken)
There is an inward gathering
Like the coiling of a spring
A threshing of the wheat
A sifting of spent days

I consider Mahatma at his wheel
Garbed in his loin cloth
Fostering revolution
Through the most common of tasks

And the wheel turns and turns