... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... death ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... sonnets ..., ... Spring ..., ... the South ..., ... time ..., ... winter ...

Sonnet #13

In the waning gray spectacle of dusk
Yellow breasted finches struggle in our
Spring’s sprinted return. He breathes brawny musk
On the spritely flesh of her back for hours.
They peck and gather in sweet maiden haste
Absconding all vows with Winter’s harsh trials.
And tears they had shed; all joy but a waste
Each droplet felled and saved in sacred vials.
Their nests caught bare and scattered by foul winds
Twigs of new budded branch inspire again!

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2 thoughts on “Sonnet #13

  1. When I read your poems, I often feel like my poems are juvenile in comparison. You just do not hesitate to use glorious florish-y language of such a romantic style. Classically trained, you seem…
    just saying…

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