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ShyErraticTable said:Sonnet XXXV
And then it was her birthday, and I knew
I'd better write her something good. At least
some piece I had not writ before. You see,
she can be very cranky, someone who
would want all kind of silly things in poems:
a story about rebirth, one that spills
quite crazy goings on, unearthly thrills,
dramatics, death and life—hell, even songs!
But quiet I feel. Subtle, even. Wan.
It's prob'ly 'cuz I haven't been in sun—
though she's not either been, as she's Canuck,
and Calgary in winter's dark as muck.
It is no matter. Whine of wine I must.
She said it was her birthday. Her, I trust.