You never grew from blackbirds, still your voice
is even nearer to the gentlest green of May,
more ferocious than the honeysuckled noise
of luscious anemones and lilies of the day.
You’re not the southern wind, but still your touch
is built from feathers, frowns and sudden frost,
you’re lesser than the dust but more than much,
as the sun in clouds, you’re found and never lost
You grant me nightshade honey, asphodels
but when I ask for roses I’m given ash,
You’re sometimes dark and often Annabelle
I call you precious but you hand me trash.
You’re more than ice cream, sweetest suitor
my poetry, from fingertips to my computer.
Today we write 14 lines of poetry with Frank at dVerse. Mine is a small sonnet.