Little Round

Oh first hour of the work-day week after I turn on the office
computer, oh absurd overflow of phone messages and accumulated mail—
Somehow I feel underdressed and unprepared for this combined assault
on my senses, not quite awake, not having quite recovered
from the exquisite joys of weekend laundry (three loads),
mesh baskets flocked with lint in shapes resembling miniature maps
of lost worlds— Oh joy of a thousand and one deadlines, of papers
that need to be labeled and filed, and texts that must be read
and underlined: my mother always told me, at the first sign
of despair, Chin up, chin up; bend your head to the winds,
plod along, plod along as best as you can.
Was that ever set
to music, sung like a round? Row the boat, row the boat round
and round, till the lake has rippled with the radiance
of repeating shapes. The sun dapples to a lovely color there—
you can see the choir of leaves, blowing kisses
or waving like a throng of miniature hands.


In response to thus: Rhapsodically.

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