I wrote this sonnet on July 17, 2008, then promptly forgot all about it. I happened across it again this morning. My journal entry for that date informs me that I wrote it for Betsy (my wife), though I’d long since forgotten that detail, too. Thinking about it now, I vaguely recall that she asked me to write a poem about the changing seasons – maybe? Not sure.
Anyway, here it is, on the Internet for the first time:
Four Seasons in Exile
Deep August branches lend their swaying shade
To children singing unfamiliar words
And playing games that I have never played
And tossing stones at unfamiliar birds.
But chilly autumn sharpens lazy dreams
Of autumns past, and cottages, and home –
Of young mistakes that only pain redeems,
And crimson leaves caught spinning by the foam.
But white shrouds every color, and the feet
Of now-familiar birds leave winding trails
That sometimes circle backward and repeat,
And sometimes break away to other tales.
And now I contemplate the end of spring
Which once I wanted more than anything.
Brian D. Buckley 