Monday, November 21, 2016

Niagara Sonnet Seventeen: A Handful of Blackberries


The last of light has faded with the night,
and shadows disappear into the dark,
the sun is now forgotten like last lark,
and rounded moon is captive to its light.
Walking with a handful of blackberries,
I'm nestled deep inside my guarded stance,
I'm made of stone, unblinking in a trance,
I wrestled with the thorn bush then tarried.
My artisan bread contains the berries
and the last cream rose petals from the arch
over the garden's entrance in the park,
there, where my truest friend was once married.
We walked on friendship's path of watermere,
and contemplated future moments dear.

Emily Isaacson