a diamond

Haven’t all the sonnets been written yet?

There’s a game on, I’m told. The Blue Jays

are flapping off the branches of old syrup-dried

trees while the enfolding flowers are dying outside.

I am inside now, shivering and cold

and wondering if there is mold

in the wooden room, whether it points to

the North, to the waters where the

petals paddle and there are fish as big

as your reflection because you are young

again there, thwacking that stick, batting that ball,

running as far as you can hit, just over the end of the road.

Where did that ball go? Where did you?

I heard that the Blue Jay’s lost by two.