The sonnet is the truest form of poetry known to man, and it’s not going anywhere in post postmodernism.
In the cold winter of our heart’s content
It was easy to forget rosy spring.
Green eyed jealousy’s missiles were not sent
Before a storm came under love’s warm wing.
To think the vinous juice of love runs dry
Because clouds cluster over fertile plains
Is to forget casks in winter’s supply,
And deny fallow fields will sprout again.
Autumn’s glow brings fears of colder winters:
And old men study grey skies on porches,
Speculating over the harvest’s yield;
Study, focus, fail to see small splinters
And as you gallop your hobbyhorses
Horizonal sun breaks onto the field.
I’m not the first man to be a damn fool
Ruminating on the future is cruel.