Don't ask me why I'm posting this. Perhaps I need to lighten the mood after that tirade against professional sports. But, in any case, here is my delightfully stupid sonnet, which surprisingly earned a good word from o 'brien. (where in God's name do you put the apostrophe in her name?):

The field dons trappings of white, a chaste hue;
Draped in frost blankets, a world earns its sleep.
Memory now faded of fresh growth in view;
Cold rages for power it attempts to keep.
When, out of the ashen ground, abundance
should flourish. Bright with pure life, the earth wakes.
Sparrow and robin felt morning’s breath once:
Tranquil yet rosy, with each stir they make.
Promising blossoms mature into flowers,
That wane in their beauteous pinnacle.
Sky candle kindles earth’s essential powers;
Covering flora and enabling each miracle.
Yet, fall’s blissful return comes every year,
And flowers lose glory like shedding of tears.

kathryn d. 2004