by Jim Cobabe
The hour of dawn my rest I broke too soon,
too soon the ever faithful sunrise failed.
Stormy weather ruled this day ’til noon,
though on other daybreaks sunny hope I hailed.
Through long and dreary winter days I bide,
and though I long to sleep in bed, depressed
beneath warm flood of down I seek to hide,
duty to my job remains impressed.
The daffodils, their blooms all blasted bleak,
the freezing from their color wresting joy.
Unheard the trickle of the sun-warmed creek,
the plaything of dark morning’s little toy.
In unrequited love I wait, so chaste, so true,
standing vigil oh so hopeless! oh so blue!
Wilderness Interface Zone 
Spring Poetry Runoff! I hadn’t noticed that before–clever! Thanks for posting these. At least I know poetry isn’t dead to everyone.
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Viva poetry!
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Nice sonnet, Jim. Very true to the form. I like how you capture a world waiting on the edge of spring. My one issue with the poem is the inverted syntax. It makes your line somewhat difficult to read, to connect with.
Thanks for sharing.
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All,
My syntax difficulties I can attribute to brain damage. Any excuse will do to account for the habits I’ve aquired over a long lifetime of striving.
Patricia accused me of employing “achaic” lingustics in the first sumitted draft. Drat all those Lois LaMour cowboy melodramas I pored through for so many hours, instead of doing my homework in grade school. The schoolwork was rote; the cowboys and damsels were food for boyish romance. Between that and scifi and outdoor romps, I had no time for foolish schoolwork. I got poor marks for studying, but straight A’s on testing, like the movies Forester of Sean Connery’s finding.
I wish I could say writing was a challenge. If it happens at all, it flows like water. I must confess, I bounced these lines off my mother’s ear whilst composing– we penned it before breakfast one morn, and took much longer to edit Patricia’s suggested changes than the original composition– near two orders of magnitude.
If I could only still talk like I can write, he wishes wistfully…
I think I will be fortunate to dance on this earth for the short time I have left. Make the best.
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My edits were only suggestions, anyway, Jim. You could take or leave what you were willing and able to take or leave.
I’m happy with the outcome. It is itself a dance. And the music of the dance.
I know few people who have had to dance as hard as you have. A nine-month-long polka, non-stop, with the music increasing in tempo and sometimes reversing rhythm. I’ve had the pleasure of stepping in here and there and going a whirl or two with you. It was hard work!
Look at you. Still on your feet.
Land sakes alive.
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