SONNETS

A little parcel came, nuts, chocolate gratifying,

I smoke and write, the New Year soon await,

let’s leave the old one back there, worn out, dying,

welcome new blood in the strophes’ rolling gait.

Once more I’ll weed and dig, time in the garden spending,

again, while working, follow, watch them flow.

Sonnets, what bliss, verse by verse gently tending,

in languid, rhythmic, douce steps as they go.

There’s plenty gifted here till morning, Christmas Day,

what Gertrude, Marianne, can you two give me, pray?

My Muses, give me words, a handful, fresh and new.

Maybe someone will write, like Rilke’s letter

to Kappus, maybe someone will praise me better?

Maybe we’ll live some yet, before the graveyard’s due.