Round

Round

In the quiet of a Sunday morning, the sun climbs a perfect orb, spilling amber over the pavement, warming the stones like a buttered scone.

Children chase a bright red ball across the green, their laughter echoing as it rolls—a relentless circle that never finds an end, only a turn.

A teacup steams on the kitchen table, its porcelain curve holding warmth, while the clock’s hands sweep in endless, steady rounds, marking time with a soft, metallic sigh.

Even the thoughts that drift through a mind on a lazy afternoon spin like a carousel, each idea a horse tethered to the same central pole, round and round, seeking the familiar comfort of repetition.

In the market stall, a wheel of cheese rests on straw, its rind rough, yet inside lies a smooth, creamy heart—proof that strength can wear a gentle, rounded guise.

And when night falls, the moon rises, a silver disc hovering above the rooftops, casting a gentle glow that turns the world into a soft, luminous sphere, reminding us that everything, from the smallest seed to the vastest sky, finds its peace in being round.