Racing Dusk
Crucial to wobbling hands,
the sonnet pushes on,
racing against August and dusk.
I need to write of buoyancy
while global fears
shackle every ankle's twitch.
Think of soldiers warming up
to leave their wives,
hoping luck will send them home.
Valentines seem more like ploys
against the hate that presses
its cleats over our soil,
yet love begins in one small heart
then scores a river on the map.I'd like a day of red and curves
that doesn't come with body counts.
Something playful pitched
against the gravity, scents of poison
pressing on the garden wall.
I cling to you for torches
in a lightless world.
Lavender seems far away.
Selfishly, I'm happy you are past the age
of dusting off a uniform.
Need the comfort of a day
where roses smell just right--
and are not set upon a grave
to measure fevers of regret
with pangs of conscience in the thorn.
--Janet I. Buck
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