Why have they chosen not to come?
November sky is wrapped in sooty shrouds;
I fear its weight will break your spindly arms,
Which struggle to support the murky clouds.
Your garlands sway, they look like golden charms.
Yet silent is your spot up on a hill.
No song is heard from fickle little friends.
A winter feast is laid, yet all is still.
I watch your arms droop down onto a fence.
Your ruby leaves are strewn above the ground.
The fireworks of fall have turn to ash.
If only we could hear the chirping sound
Before it's time for winter's whip to lash.
I hold my breath in hopes to hear their call.
I fear they've chosen not to come at all.
� 2005 Anne Maarit Ghan
This poem received an Honorary Mention in
the June-06 issue of ByLine Magazine.
Note:
The sonnet is probably the best-known verse form of all.
It has 14 lines, divided into two sections: normally an octet followed by a sestet.
A Shakespearean sonnet (like the one above) rhymes ababcdcd/efefgg.
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