Happy Saturday, Broken Binnacle crew!
Another weekly poem. There’s not much of a story behind this one, besides that I’m trying to expand and improve upon my portfolio of poetic forms (i.e., I’ve never actually written a Petrarchan Sonnet). Not my best piece, but if it inspires you to pick up the pen and write something yourself—which you should—then I’ve done something better than just write a cute poem.
At the youthful dawn of all days was the first gift
Given by God’s herald, the morning; remembered
In the kiss of morning dew, so unnumbered,
As is the count of love, with its constant shifts
Of endless affections. It is heard in the riffs
Sung by early-hour birds who are unencumbered
By the worldly weight that wearies we who lumber
With heavy stones and sordid sweat like Sisyphus.
Our hearts too full to let the mustard seed take root,
The wonder of breath is choked by seeming needs
Unneeded, as we forget the simple gifts of life,
Of love, of light; the rich man weeps and stoops
While Burundi orphans sing. We surely seem
To remember best when day gives way to night.