I’d love to write a sonnet but I daren’t
For in this steamy heat it’s much too hard
So please don’t send me messages that taunt
Nor with disdain compare me to our bard.
.For not all people have poetic skill
And what I have will sometimes fall to dust
Like virtue writing’s not made by the will
Await the grace ,as saints and mystics must
In the mind an empty bowl of space
We keep to catch the offerings of the gods.
It’s more like contemplation than a race;
For freely, quietly we receive the good.
The lady’s not for turning words to gold
But with a chosen few she loves to mould