Friday, August 17, 2012

Sonnet One Three Eighty

When floods dry up, and hurricanes desist -
when clouds are broken by the welcome sun -
then only does my soul ball like a fist,
to crush from summer every breath of fun.
When crises end, and urgent voices cease
to warn us that the end is surely near,
then only does my anxious pulse increase
until each lifted voice is drained of cheer.
I cannot say why I am out of sync
with merriment, and arm-in-arm with gloom -
and I can only wonder what you think
as I invite you downstairs to my room:
come see my etchings, rest, and have some tea,
while I hold forth on grief and tragedy.

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