spring sonnet
The vines are greening and the old man who owns the vines
was busy trimming them although it was Sunday and church
bells chimed He is very old 92 last year, and it was father’s day
a few days ago. He never married, but every bush is his child
And he gives them equal time. He is in many ways a lucky man
the vines love him, he knows that, leaves softens in his caring
hands that carry a promise of everlasting worship.
On father’s day, I never left the house, sat by the phone waiting
for a call from my daughter, she is everything I never achieved,
my futile dream of respectability.
A whisper of a wind came through the open window, gently told
me that my cherished is a figment of my dreams of perfecting.
Then an irate storm cast rattled the window, your real daughter was
born in poverty in Kingston, Jamaica, the child of a prostitute and
she became one too.
August 14th 2020, 6:22 am by TerishD
Subject: spring sonnet 
