(Sonnet)
If I should die with a shunted echo hear me,
Lost fabled one, my paltry heart the snows,
The warmth rides of the chiding winter sun,
The melody and rustling in cantata leaves,
Whose strings of one, plaintive guitar, strung
By breaths birthing breaks, your tracing lips,
White birds, water wings miraculous, not so
Stunning as your steps float above the water,
I am nothing, less, you shine pure, most of all
More than any heart could tender, how could
An empty house, abridgment only, unhinging
Doors coursing reason hold the new day sun?
As flame was my doom, love hear my thesis—
Should I die, look for me in the loom chrysalis.
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