Vermont Mandala Round and Round, defiant of the straight line I til the dirt with my orange hand, My strong arm, my iron spine White and gray layers dance in my spirals, gleefully trapping earthworms in their chiseled beaks He yells over the engine to go in straight lines, and I pretend I can’t hear There is no stopping my private dance The engine hum adds to the soundtrack superceded only by my inner mandala erasing lists and thoughts beyond the now Clearing now, I backtrack