We are like oaks and let our roots entwine;
when winter claws, untethered teeth are bared,
our hearts beat slowly; closed are chests and shrines.
We’re waiting, wishing that our sap’s prepared
to rise and greet in joy: return of spring.
Another wish we’d trade for our sapling’s dare
to break their shell and from the acorn bring
through many years of growth, a shadowed grace
of deep compassion for the soil that sing
of promised deals as I propose, and lace
my voice with nectar to become your groom.
You whisper “yes”, and suddenly this place
is filled with bliss, your words: perfume
rekindle love again, as bluebells bloom.
Today Ella want us go fairytale and include some promises. I think it fitted the narrative of the story I’m telling in my heroic sonnet crown. Only three sonnets (plus one) remaining now:
here are the preceding ones: Bluebells, The tear of tears, Before the monsters, When we had built a nest, Let’s mend the bridges, Your icicles, Our highway through the sky, The emptiness of brine, Of carnivores and feeble frills and Silver filigree.
This is also my post no: 1700.
April 24, 2015