Monday, November 14, 2016
Niagara Sonnet Thirteen
The horses, stirred up, in the darkening France,
went thund'ring down the hill every which way,
I hid in terror from their highland neigh,
behind a trunk, while holding to a branch.
It was magnolias upon the tree,
their fragrance was as gospel to my heart,
rivaling holy scriptures from the start,
the gardener had planted much for me.
Without regret I knew that I was saved
from illiterate end without a book—
for I was cloaked in words, ink shod my foot,
without debt, in the black, I calmly stayed.
For writing is divine when free from fear;
reflection's more successful in the mirror.