I sat to write sonnets on gilded leaf,
Gold-edge paper. Lofty my sentiments
For she deserved Byron and Shelley,
Marlowe, John Donne, Shakespeare, even Sidney.
But I of pretense born cannot compete
With these of greater honed skill and craft
Where they can make the sun stand still and catch
Sweet Breath in moments frill, ne’er so can I.
I sought to speak in hushed, rev'rent tones
But frivolous they sounded lead on lead.
But should verse fail to reach her heart, what then?
I have one recourse left, "I love you, Dear!"
These lips were kissed so urgently, she cried,
It wasn’t them she wanted, it was I.
© 2017 David W. Palmer