I start another sonnet from the plains
And pause—to ponder all that I omit
When I lift up my joys—dismissing pains
Of lifting to the spreader tons of shit,
Of fighting gnats and skeeters in my sweat,
Of cockleburs, and drought, tomato worms,
Fence that won’t stay fixed, and years with net
Red ink (unpleasant notes from credit firms),
The accidents that take a thumb or eye,
The aging of my wife before her time,
Most markets (and some children) gone awry . . .
Are these the proper stuff of meter, rhyme?
—Well, now I’ve paused a bit—and studied on it.
I think I’ll go ahead and write that sonnet.
Copyright © 2011. Don Thackrey. All rights reserved.