A Petrarchan Sonnet

I don’t have any poetry tonight —
To see things truly seems a pain too great, 

For every shadow bears time’s dying weight,
And swiftly speeds the beauty in the light.

Her life once seemed to me a canvas white,
My father, though, saw lines pre-marked like fate
And warned her as we parted at the gate,
Yet I said nothing when she took her flight.

Time is a deep uncrossable, too steep
A pass for any traveller to mount.
But now, tonight and in this very room
I hear her children sleeping through the gloom
And know they too will go. Would one word count
That I could say – to guide, to help, to keep?

~ Watchful




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