Monday, June 15, 2015

Sonnet: To My Godmother

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.