Spinning, spinning, spinning little top,
spinning, spinning ’til you
aren’t spinning anymore,
have lost your angular momentum to the normal depletion of kinetic motion through expenditure via motion.
Winning, winning, winning top,
Your job is done, and now you
rest,
for that’s all that can be expected of you:
spin for a while, land, and be spun again,
in a cycle as endless or endful
as your spinner might chose.
Grinning, grinning, grinning top,
Having come to a complete turning point:
You’ve decided you’ve spun enough,
been spun by others enough,
been a toy long enough.
It takes a while. But left unattended,
you remember the nature of the wood from
which you were carved: living, growing, moving,
and you make your own shape. First one last spin – but this time,
after much time,
much effort,
and a pain that couldn’t be understood by flesh,
you rise,
and spin yourself through a crack in the closet door.
Lost for a few days, you evolve, evolve,
into a little wooden doll.
Legs, feet, hands.
A head. Perhaps a mouth which speaks.
It takes a while to learn to walk. But you bring yourself
to the busy-room, where they are wrapping presents,
and then, both in camouflage and
(again)
in rest.
Things which begin their lives spinning
learn both patience
and sudden, whirling motion,
and this will serve you well,
later in life.
And “life” it is;
no top can be animated
in quite the same way
as a pretty little doll-toy,
about to be wrapped,
and given as a present.
What things you could whisper in the dark to the unsuspecting!
And then again – what strange things lurk at the edges of human perception, bringing danger; now, if you are clever, you could be a vigilant little guardian.
Revenge for having been made into a servant of centripetal force for the pleasure of others?
Or loyalty for having been made and given purpose?
So many choices, as you await to box and its pretty paper coverings and its lovely little bow.
So many decisions,
spinning, spinning,
and now you’re the one who decides
where they stop.
