Sonnet I: Grades of Paper

Upon a time, my love, a diary
Of paper, stained with words set down in ink;
Revealing all a boy might feel, and think,
And strive, and pray, and wonder what might be;

That, would he, worthy of thy love, decree?
On paper, yes; but also on the brink–
Withholding nothing more–profess; and think,
If then not worthy, tears he shed for thee

Would blur his ink; such tears as fell like rain
To paper; ran his words, as ran his heart,
Cascading down, as rivers, all his pain;
So mixt with joy, and hope we would not part.

Yet now, his tears, upon a keyboard, fall,
Not mixt with joy, nor pain, nor seen at all.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:


6 responses to “Sonnet I: Grades of Paper

    • Always it began,
      as reliable as though
      it ran like clockwork,

      Sweetheart, did I sit,
      outside, under an awning,
      watched and listened as it rained.

      And sometimes, I cried;
      all my tears, all my ink, mixed;
      and wrote I such things.


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