Sonnet: To My Godmother

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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.