|No reprint without permission.|
Sonnet for my Godmother (perhaps unfinished)
Neither, itself, perfection impossible (proving me, perhaps, passably wise)
would this seem, to me, surely, were it meant for just any one --
this, that I am compelled, yet again, yet again! to revise --
no, nor, even half so literally incapable of being done.
Knowing this is no help at all, notwithstanding my knowing it well;
that and a phone call is calling you; who first proved to me someone could care,
could love without twisting that love to force or defraud or compel,
that love is in fact not about proof at all ; love is about being there --
-- and about patience, and listening. These I learned, first, from you,
or rather, I thought I had learned, or perhaps should say "want" or "am still"
because learning this theory in practice would be a start at respect you are due
and to teaching my own godchildren, by example, love under will --
------------------------------- and maybe, just maybe -- is it so much?
I would finally know how to get in touch.