Sonnet #49: Night Thrust

Evening comes, with its forward thrust of light,

a punch of gold to throw us into the dark,

a weight of clouds to keep us holding tight

to whatever soothes, to whatever keeps the spark

of hope alive when all seems black or gray:

that emptiness when joy and sorrow leave

and all that's left lacks color, when decay

abounds and we've no strength; even to grieve

is more than we can manage, so we sit,

clutching that last shred of childhood dreams,

our eyes shut tight, one last small candle lit

and flickering, then sputtering... It seems

so long, this night that we endure --

and yet dawn will return: of that I'm sure.

Sonnet #48: Sweet Cellist, sit

Sweet cellist, sit, and play your song for me:

place fingers on the strings and slide your bow

across the bridge. Now drift, deft melody:

give beauty voice, and set our souls aglow.

Your hat and beard may hide your face, but still

your music tells us all we need to know

about your spirit, and your strength of will,

your practice; all the work you undergo

to bring this tender ballad to our ears

and stop us in our tracks as we pass by.

This gift, given by one of your young years,

is precious, rare -- an aural butterfly

that flutters into hearing and then departs,

spreading color and delight to all our hearts.