I cannot seem to get myself to finish the various bits of posts I've started writing for this blog. I have one of the critical study of religion as well as my oft promised reflection on Sixpence None the Richer. I have a few others on the burner too, but they just aren't getting done. So, for tonight, I'll just post another sonnet. This one was started on December 13, when I drove past a field in Maryland Heights filled with puddles lit by the setting sun.
A field barren, the harvest long complete, Ponds formed, glimmer in the early evening.
So as the soul can feel so hard a defeat,
Half drowned below the cold water pooling.
The growth of summer past still remembered,
Spring sprouts still months under the dark, cold ground.
Though sun does shine on water’s jewels now gathered,
Frost’s war continues ‘gainst the glowing round.
Invoking summers past and yet to come,
Lose all impact amidst the icéd earth.
The path so long, so cold leaves one all numb,
Has the still earth morphed to hostile turf?
Show me, Almighty Liege, the way to go,
That I might know before fields again grow.