Round and Round and Round and Round …
And round we go again,
spinning again on this pretty planet
as if the intricate dance
were forever, its patterns important.
The moment seems to matter.
My cats are old and sick, my man is dead.
Tell me that’s not important.
Important to me — but not to some stranger
across the world, not to
animals in zoos or jungles, not at all
to insects living their little lives
and not to the stars in space, nor the space.
My friend is sad for her old mother
finally dead in her nineties: wondering, “Did I do
enough?” (She did. I was witness.)
All these small human dramas we all repeat,
caught in the cycle. As if brand new
as we each meet each one as if for the first time.
Yet when we sink to restful emptiness,
how well we know that music, that old refrain.
It wells up to remind us, nothing
is new, nothing is really unknown, nothing
is individual. We spin our lives
again and again on our spinning planet.
Round and round and round and round
we go again — caught in the spin, dreaming
our little dramas as if they were real,
as if we were here, as if we were now, as if….
(Lately I dream that I dream.
Does this mean I’m ready to wake?)
— Rosemary Nissen-Wade
("Round and round and round and round we go again" — I'm not plagiarising, just alluding!)
("Round and round and round and round we go again" — I'm not plagiarising, just alluding!)
