The Whirlwind Review
Issue 1


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More Poetry
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Bradley Earle Hoge

Medicine Wheel

They say the journey is more important
than the destination, the carrying of stones
to wagon, the helping your children
lift them, as if they are strong, the wending
the wagon down the slope gently
so as not to tip it over, as Grandmother,
my mother, watches from the deck,
as we build her medicine wheel,
on the mountain she has moved
to, from the rocks which feed her, under
the dry sky, the aspen steeples, as my
children get distracted, but I must finish,
lining the path, delineating it by stone
from the flat earth where the broken
remnants of ancient flood are scattered
like evidence only an archaeologist
can see of ancient civilization, hidden
just below the surface, and the sun shines
bright, but the air is crisp, and my father
waits for the stones, knowing where
to place them, standing, marking
my destination, where there will be
no sadness waiting, not because the journey
was rewarding rather than arduous,
not because my purpose was not often
distracted, not because time sang through
the aspen branches, but because it is
the destination that defines the journey.
 






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