A quarantine sonnet inspired by a photo on a late afternoon walk near Monument Rock, and written out of the pensive pool of pandemic ponderings about light and life on the way to seventy.
I enjoy writing poetry, though I am little more than a novitiate of the poetic craft, a tyro in training. Why poetry? I am drawn to the mystery and magic of words, and the rhythm and rhyme of verse and form.
Winnie-the-Pooh died today. Or, rather, his father died today. Not his real father mind you. And not this day, but on this day. Oh, dear. I mean, on another day that is the same as this day. A different kind of same day. I mean. Oh, bother.
