It’s been awhile since I have written a sonnet.
Though there are none around who might insist
I have some inner need. I’ll get right on it
and make a poem I hope you can’t resist.
Today I walked amidst a grove of trees
and tried to listen to their conversation.
But I don’t think they wanted me to be
amongst them. No bark to offer me elation.
It could have been the wind was very weak.
But then it isn’t wind that gives them bark.
The bark is silent — it’s the leaves that speak.
They rustle in the day, and when it’s dark.
I think I’ll bring this sonnet to close.
T’ will never come up smelling like a rose.