|The Sonnet by William Malready|
Being the lover of all things poetic, but especially sonnets, I could not resist the opportunity to write my own. And having written the sonnet, why in the world would I not share it on the Isle with you? (Have I mentioned how very gracious you are?) So without further ado, I offer you my Spenserian sonnet which I dedicate to my creative, courageous, and captivating mom.
My Mother’s Hands
My hands look just like my mother’s strong hands
Which have lived and sewn and worked with such might
That the tough skin swells ‘gainst her wedding bands
And her fingernails are a sorry sight.
As a child I saw her sit in lamp light,
Her spectacled eyes giving such a look
At her hands, their work, at the reverent spright
With which they turned the page of the aged book,
Her bible, resting in her lap. The brook-
Sound of pages rustling ever is
In this child’s memory. So I look
At my hands. I am awash in new bliss.
Fingers, palms, all a reminder: aloneI will never be. Regrets, I have none.