Saturday, August 29, 2009


From roaming in the pasture, summer long,
I’ve now again strapped on my racing gear
And braced myself to run among the throng
For fourteen laps till next I’m in the clear.

Inspiring and exhausting and constrained,
Semesters, like a sonnet, are a game
Where strategy and wit must be sustained
To fit a course of learning in its frame.

So round we go as marking posts whiz by—
It’s all a blur of energy and strain—
The catching up, the catching on, the try
To cross the line and beat the clock: the pain!

But then, relief and joy in work well done,
When finally the struggle feels like fun.