Stillbirth of a Sonnet
There have been moments in my life enjoyed
more for the forest than the fallen leaves.
White drops of ink that improbably bleed
right off their journal to rupture the void
no one had known existed ‘til destroyed
by the birth of a daughter her father needs
in such a way that such a need exceeds
all fathomable measurements employed.
The type of moment that tames tedium
and makes it bearable: a mismatched sock
in hand to the sock on foot - every time
worth a grin when the laundry stacks up grim;
the type I once stood on admiring my flock
‘til grey wolves in weeds taught my daughters rhyme.
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