Sonnet Kickoff Emilio DeGrazia

THE THIRTEENTH MONTH: A SONNET TRIPTYCH
Emilio DeGrazia

I.
Weeds, groping for cracks in concrete,
One by one go deaf, dumb and blind.
Birds swallow refrains they can’t repeat,
And in city air dawn loses her mind.
Baseball calls its own time out this year.
Wars don’t thaw on frozen fields of dreams,
And kids, unsafe at school, walk home in fear.
Earth’s curveball spin, wound up by storms, seems
Undone, a knuckleball, berserk and blank.
And in these troubled times when bottom lines
Can’t be rounded off, and when no bloated bank
Can calculate returns for wholesale crimes,
We pause to doubt spring will come round again.
For the thirteenth month we have no name.

II.
For minds longing to believe what they know
And for eyes full of feelers for the unseen,
The earth performs its small routines offscreeen
Without betraying the secrets of her show.
How does the moon know when the time is right
To sway the tides closer to the sun
So waters can warm the soil in silent night
And tendrils can begin their quiet run
Toward the dandelion, the old sun’s rune
Rewritten on the schoolgirl’s open face
Amazed at blossoms opening their white grace
To the lunatic leer of the naked moon.
For what spring brings round there is no name
Whenever the thirteen month returns again.

III.
There is no respinning this old news,
Though nature’s gospel peters out, unleaving
Us to revelation of what we stand to lose
By cheering the return of the chariot Lord, wheeling
His high-horsed revenge from sky on wild-maned steeds
That obey the commands of a trumpet blast
Tuned to scorch the earth of all its deeds,
Once and for all, present, future, and past.
It makes a wide-screened movie in a small mind,
This cold-hate rescue full of fiery sounds,
This promise––threat that leaves good folk behind––
Recurrent as the sun on its lazy rounds
And as the thirteenth month without a name,
Old rite of spring that will come round again.

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