Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Niagara Sonnet Nineteen


The clock chimes eight, and through the window pane,
the light so dim, my dear, at evening's end,
and purposefully twilight bows its head;
it never poured anointing on the lane,
but walking to this antique house you came,
with walking stick beside you striking stone,
and rivulets of water ran alone,
across the cobbled pathway just the same.
You saw me through an uncorrupted lens,
I was an age-old book you'd read before,
from the glass teapot, wintermint was poured,
we spoke in lowered tones at time's expense,
before the cherished crystal breaks and cries,
a boreal reflection of the skies.

Emily Isaacson