The Carousel

In childhood, we climb aboard

the merry-go-round, brightly lit,

a calliope of music, a wooden track, spinning

wooden horses, carved and frozen, forever prancing,

riding a brass pole up and down

and up again, merrily turning clockwise

like the hands of a clock, the hands of time,

moving forward, around and around and around

till we grow older, growing up

and putting away our youth and childhood

for the thrills that take us

higher and faster and away;

but age catches up with us, years

passing by, and restless now, we return

to climb aboard the carousel, age’s amusement,

a calliope of music, a wooden track, spinning

wooden horses, carved and frozen, prancing still

and riding a brass pole we clutch

in aging hands, up and down and up again,

counter-clockwise turning, turning backward,

turning back the years, rewinding,

turning back the clock and time,

time remembered, remembering time and seasons,

the seasons of our lives remembering.