We know a tree by it’s branches
its leaves. The roots keep the center
upright. Even the bark defines, but
the center, the core, who knows?
After all it is the rings we count, not
that blank dot at the center.
In a wheel, the hub is a hole, the spokes
branching to the rim where work is done.
Everything happens on the edge:
the Left Wing, the Right Wing more
exciting than the center where all
are drawn but nothing happens.
The storm advances, high winds up front
the rain trailing behind, but the center
is empty, a moment of calm or
indecision, like when I sit, breathing
in, breathing out, my eyes closed above
my legs growing numb, my hands curved
in a mudra, my center quiet, empty.