I started a Spenserian sonnet over a month ago—or is it two? But I can’t figure out how I want to proceed for the moment, so I’m going to manifest a few smaller ideas in the meantime.
Beautiful Things
Beautiful things go bloom
in the night. Concussive
shockwaves fan out to
shake my bones and rattle
my humours with spasms.
Beautiful living things bloom,
blasting silent explosions
into my flesh as ashes
of new beginning settle
in my convulsing lungs.
Grasses bang tiny blooms
on the valley floor, as do
conifers high on rocky hills.
Everywhere perennials bolt
and burst blooms of every kind.
Cherry trees explode fireworks,
ten thousand little blooms
shifting beneath the moon,
but these only fill the chambers
of my heart with quiet joy.
Why all the explosions? Some metaphors connecting with allergies and asthma.
