XL-XLII

XL.

I shamelessly romanticize the word
as written or as printed on the page.
From ancient times and distant lands are heard
the voices of the conqueror and sage.

Campaigns of Caesar in first-hand account;
the thoughts of Plato leap from mind to mind;
humanity in infinite amount;
more treasures than one possibly can find.

Beginning was the Word; the Word was God.
This echoes in the pages of each book.
I find the modern world so very odd,
such plethora of printings we forsook.

Our ancestors this wisdom dearly sought.
Here we could read it all and we do not.


XLI.

October last our church had set a day
to gather at the cemetery gate.
We washed and scoured ev’ry single grave
and after Vespers all of us stayed late.

Catharsis seemed to flow about the tombs,
all ages clearly taking to the task.
Beneath the lichen we discovered whom
we’d buried six feet under in the cask.

Our Greenwood is a lovely little park
with deer attracted by the mighty oaks.
I say a passing prayer when it gets dark
ensuring restful souls be not provoked.

Now one year on, the standing stones still shine,
reminding me ere long must I claim mine.


XLII.

A dog has no anxieties of life
so long as basic needs have all been met;
no hint of existential grief or strife
save on occasion visits to the vet.

They do not fret on purpose nor on waste.
They never fear the ticking of the clock:
necessity and joy their only haste;
no midlife crisis making them take stock.

Was this our state in Eden long ago,
the paradise of mindfulness and zen?
Before he bit the fruit, did Adam know
salvation’s always now and never then?

The lesson of this sonnet’s epilogue:
a dog is happy just to be a dog.