Sonnet #284

I take great comfort in your indifference, fair reader,

How I am shivering as much to myself as to you,

And nothing that I bluster will last much longer

Than the wind it took to breathe these words through

 

The letters on this page will keep for no one

The letters on my tombstone will moss and fade

The only future spirit of me is not the glory of the blade

Or the wisdom of the pen, only the echo of what I’ve sewn

 

It will not be attributed to me, this echo, but it moves

where my hands move, following the spirit of the hawks

That hover where all the birdfeeders are, the waves

that crash the shellfish, crush them open and seagulls walk

among the shells devouring; all the brave

stumble, no courage here, just wind in the cornstalks

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