My Poetic Double (Nestorian Sonnet)
He grins like sweet summer sun and dons a musky mojo,
causing the blooms to titter and roll their sweat onto him;
trancing the sage-less, sarky studmuffins to stare in awe;
and I, the shufflebutt, love to lean my days on his beam.
Like sugar pine he is to me that scares not the swallows,
who are in sound search for the fragrance of elysian life.
Critters beyond twilight are no better against his sense
of humor, which oft makes me surely grow in such a rife
for when the banshee wind wails I’ll not be in a pretense.
But when all around him, not calm, or earth is in hollows,
there is this wrath in him that he can wake in a fine line
and prick you without knowing, as if you touch the roses
and sense their thorns. Also, in his choler there is his kind
of love; feel it, be the perfect cone of my heart’s verses.
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