Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Niagara Sonnet Eighteen
I am an agent blind of all sadness,
I am deaf of mournful mysteries! Still
of misery made from a cup of chilled
white wine—one dime, recalled work in darkness.
Soul, I cannot tell. I am urged to run
by impetuous breath and false decree;
I fall and fall in swift descent to thee.
I am at the bottom of a well, done,
better if I pull myself up by my
bootstraps and go down to the potter's brown
stone house. If sometimes, I dare turn and frown,
it is that I have never met the sky:
pots and works of clay that were amber red.
Potter with so much coloured glaze, my head!