Sonnet, December 4, 2024

Oh, wither has that Trust escaped this winter,

whose summered glare once sured my days' advance.

Oh, whether to a sea or sky or wind, 

Or soil, shall all simple words mischance. 

How love can I whose radius knows no bounds,

not even miniscule to give its meaning?

There 'xists no comfort 'xcept for ones unsound,

invented for a quickly, timely gleaming. 

So, "let me brush against an alien joy, 

Whose novelty for now I meet quite haply; 

I'll leave inquiet waters to annoy

Me once the foreigner's call sounds scrappily." 

Then left with glares which litter cold my den,

I, wondr'ing this winter, quote this verse again.