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, if’t seemed 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; 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 --
-- & about patience, & listening. Well. Because this verse but begins what I would you are due;
Because would I could wield for my own godchildren my Love with your skill;
Because intention emulates the there whose first being I learned through you,
or should I say, thought I had learned — or "wanted to”? — or "am still”?
------------------------------- & maybe, just maybe -- is it really so much?
I might — finally — have learned about — staying — in touch.
