Sonnet July, 2025

How might this pen make contact with the page?

Thought pales to rippling sheets of light on water; 

What woven words can my soft fingers gauge? 

When ponds send tapestries of sky to tatters. 

Soft blown the rigid peaks of mountains are,

Reflected in the mirror of the shallow. 

Man's codes and strokes of hand are very far

From shimmering lines of white the wind doth hallow. 

And, true, how oft have pictures in my head

Cried out and begged these wrists to shaketh!

Yet, sat beside the foot of Nature's bed, 

No greater love find I; my soul she quaketh. 

So another hour this pen may wait to scratch, 

Please understand, my page. With love I do detach.