Well?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLIV)


Blue skies lo, nary cloud blots for intents
Warm on these frozen wastes as trash' detail
Flirts 'cross the puddles like a bird in pale
Excuse who, washing up as wont, shakes thence
His wings, light flashing off them with a sense
Of summer's carefree minutes, whiles to scale
Ice glares more coldly from the corners frail
Ghosts of thin warmth ne'er touch but tis pretense.
Dad pulls espressos, foaming milk in tour
As all baristas, yet sans flourish, to
Leave that to sheer caprice I find as twere,
Whiles I feign then to ascertain a view
Of this or that, which he half tol'rates fer
The mystry is't? of all we sorta knew.

03Mar19b