A Poem for H.
I walk the night to keep my five wits warm.
I'll start with Roethke's line. I'll make a sonnet
of rhymeless five-beat lines and call it yours,
if you'll accept this paltry, tattered gift.
I'll walk tonight in cold November rain,
and let the raindrops fall unhindered on me.
I'll make a sonnet on the way back home,
pacing its rhythm on the soaked asphalt.
Indoors, dried off, I'll watch through the wee hours;
fueled by coffee, I'll work on my mad poem:
Ophelia's bouquet of thorns and weeds.
Awake till dawn, I'll keep my five wits warm
by poetry's hearth-fire, by the shape and form
of language, by this deathless kindly light.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2018-11-27 at 09:26
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