April...my early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCLXVIII)


Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence
More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail
Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale
Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence
Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense
Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail,
These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale
Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence?
O me!  The blacktop sports thin puddles fer
A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to
Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk.  Were
It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who
Shall--what?  I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor
As saying is, and recall Mum:  all we knew.

14Apr17c

I used to stay up all night in deep study,
but now my studying is slimmer because I've found more answers.

Now:
After an hour or two or rest there is a fresh
ground to plant myself in.

After two or three hours of gardening
in the fertile field, the crop is planted, and
the morning's work is done.

I now need to rest again for new fertile ground,
but also for the night
plants to sprout to cover my tracks.