Turning circles and dancing
on blue depression glass
rosettes under my toes will never wilt
they'll never fall, never fade
never bloom

I'm turning circles and turning
back around to the last place
                    I saw you
the wind in my hair will be the same
every sight and sound the way I left it

But I'll turn circles and hear
all the chinks and tings of my miss-stepping feet
caught on the echo of your absence
and falling gracelessly over the cut-glass of cold blue rosettes