...you've gotta BE here.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCXV)


Let stormy blue racks hide the day to scale
Where naked trees lined up evince from hence
Vague hints of Spring, as if leaves shall fr'intents
Not be much longer, like chartreuse t'avail
Already murmurs of beyond, this frail
Calm plovers pierce with strangest wafting scents
Of melted butter just in tow for sense,
Like popcorn and a movie thought of bail?!
I was not here oernight, so maunt demur
Nor say if that e'en could occur, or's true.
Tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day. We were
Most fond of corned beef with yes, cabbage too,
Yet rarely had such treats. With Reubens cure
For that, I'm only wishing I'd wait You.

16Mar25b

I do.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCXIV)


Where dawn is not, for rain whose last detail
Is threat'ning snow, grind coffee like erst, whence
Fresh Thompson's Irish Tea in lo, what thence?:
A well-worn Barry's mug, and joe t'avail,
Both with a dash of half-n-half to scale,
How snow late fills the air with white for sense,
As forecast, and I dearly hope from hence
That March swears off such blankets and owns bail.
A blackbird wanders nigh til, how in tour
The plover cries. Geese next, he calls 'gain to
Distract me, and by afternoon tis pure
Spring wetness all 'round. Puddles blankly view
Whate'er is nigh and naught else seems astir.
I put the Scriptures on...LORD, save us too.

16Mar25a