“You are indeed an amazing person!” (L.F., 5/16/11)
With gratitude for Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73
I know, quite well, what the Bard meant when he
Evoked those stark images of age, death—
Those stripped, bare boughs, cold ash—diminished breath.
Time’s toll exacted from the life of me.
Nonetheless, I strive (sometimes with pure glee),
Determined to extract some sense—obsessed,
Despite bruised experience, with this quest
To force reason on staid authority.
Two adjectives reward my constant flings
I must admit, they fuel my spirit’s lust—
I’m dubbed “amazing” and “astonishing”—
My labors, therefore, not a total bust.
But which is best: trapped in a “maze,” alone—
Or stunned so hard you’re turned to gritty “stone”?
(5/26/11)