Foundation slips beneath my feet;
the sand below is soft and dry.
If unstable, I am awry -
unsettled whenever we meet.
And yet how I dislike concrete:
it jars my bones, my skin will fry;
at least sand gives under my feet,
it hurts less whether wet or dry.
Beaches are where we beat the heat,
milling of classes low and high;
deserts are lake beds, time gone by;
sand, whether a nuisance or treat,
remembers the press of all feet.
(Note: the Roundel is the English 'round,' while the Rondel is the French.)
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