It can’t be done. Or can it?
…as a draft for a few weeks, until I got up the nerve to once again take it on. There were no lines, just a few groups of notes I jotted down quickly on my way from one task to another. Just before I did that, I had been contemplating, or daydreaming, or musing upon how those who claim to stand for freedom and equality, permit these travesties to take place, and even condone them. Even act as their apologists. I suspect I will never understand or be fully able to fathom this.
It can be embarrassing, when looking, in fall or winter, back to spring. This latest sonnet, and its introduction, could have been written as late as December of 1990, but may have been written earlier.
My good friend Jon taught me a valuable thing: That how we felt is how we felt. Knowing this–internalizing it–I feel less embarrassment for my former self, and more empathy. Continue reading