Rounds
The skies of sunlit days have blues and whites
That give us cause to simply breathe and be.
The skies of moonless nights are dark, with lights
As distant as unaided eyes can see.
*******
There comes the dawn—that rising sun again—
And then the morning, noon, and afternoon,
And then the dusk—and then that night again,
Until the time that often comes too soon—
Or just in time for some, for others late,
When silently we’re told it’s time to end
The rounds that mark our lives and yield to fate—
To start the sleep that then will never end.
We know what waits us, yet we live as though
The day that is a life will be as bright,
As life proceeds, as in its fullest glow—
Until we see its evening turn to night.
******
******
How many rounds before, how many after
The current round of hours, of seasons, years?
How many smiles, how much of merry laughter?
How much of pain, how many more of tears?
******
Our lives are threaded through with darkness, light—
With joy and sorrow, pleasure braiding pain.
And so we weep and so we know delight—
As hunger makes us savor food again.
A life to live—and then to leave—ah yes—
With eyes that saw the sun and moon and stars,
With rounds enlivened by the human mess
But blighted sore by lies and endless wars!
So just as night and day are needed, both,
So also might be all our joy and grief—
Like sleep and waking, diligence and sloth,
Like thirst and quenching, reason and belief.
2025, April 11th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
