The thing about the Muses is they don’t always come in the form of gentle companions whispering sweet inspirational somethings in our ears. Sometimes they show up as contests, as “I bet you can’t do that” dares, as the gauntlet thrown down on the virtual floor. Actually, that’s more likely how it will happen for me than the nicer way.
Fine, then, I accept the challenge. Do you?
I wrote the sonnet below last year in response to a challenge to write a sonnet in keeping with the Thanksgiving theme. It still pleases me, so I share it with you now.
The tipping point at year’s eleventh hour
I stop mid-rush to slice a piece of grace
and raise a glass to beneficent power.
Yet all this pausing keeps me from the chase
of things more lovely and things simply more.
I’m told I lack and so therefore I must buy
the overflow of someone else’s store.
Oh, for a barn that reaches to the sky!
So high my thoughts, yet staring at the floor
I see another world and wonder why
my world, so rich, so full, became so small.
In true thanksgiving, I must now adore
an empty barn, a heart that cannot fly,
and bleeding hands that hold my all in all.