Justin du Coeur (jducoeur) wrote,
Justin du Coeur

That wasn't *supposed* to be a sonnet...

... and really, it isn't one -- the uneven meter and missing rhyme reflect the loose modern verse it started as. Yet sonnet form is ever my favorite, so even when I'm just composing on-the-fly, I wind up with four-line bundles of little iambs (a few of them, mis-born, missing a foot).

Take it as you will: it woke on my lips, and wanted to be set down.

On the coldest night we'd seen in years,
the pricks of fear began to needle easy confidence.
"The warm," we said, "will come again, and soon."
And yet, our voices quavered just a bit with doubt.

And then a thaw -- perhaps a shallow one,
not enough to melt those early snows, but just
a rise enow that glibbest certainty seem'd
once again the simple daily rote.

In earnest, then, the sleet began,
then hardened into ice so deep it seem'd
would never ease and melt -- that no amount
of heat would lift the burden of our chill.

Panic, then: unreas'ning fear
that winter ne'er would lift. Our blankets
drawn up to our chins, our souls bedimmed,
and every heart enshrouded with despair.

"'Tis doom for sure," said some, all doubt erased,
with all the pessimist's grim joy,
their satisfaction rising from the thought
that certainty, at last, was on their side.

And yet, the winter still will end. There will be snow,
and chill, and ice before that day, and starts enfalsed to make us fear.
But green awaits the patient man, who plants his winter crops
and knows that springly warmth will give them life.

(ETA, since it isn't obvious: this is a post about economics. Sometimes, a metaphor is simply a bit *too* perfect...)

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