( Sonnet )*

Red oak floors, under easy wing chairs,
A panorama view into mature gardens,
Mountains crested beyond always blue
And ever, the sweep, night lap of moon.

Woodland birds from afar come and go,
Some gentle greetings of fawn and doe,
The occasional eagle or raven laid high,
Let off stages for contemplations arrive.

This room, both door and windows keep,
Under impossible sparkle of starry sheet,
Makes real, of waking dream to lost poet
Who travels, mindful, into woeful mystic,

As chain of rains and sun meld to inspire,
Any words which a muse might set afire.