Sonnet: Morning Fugue State
by John Kendall Hawkins
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The grand translucence of a white rose in spring's eye
the clouds over Wordsworthville seemed to me today,
Rorschach dialectical energy at play,
who's zoomin whom? my gray projections seemed to sigh,
like some wind blown from a childhood storm high
in the fragrant atmosphere of memory's way
of seeing through the details too precious to stay.
When I behold a white rose I never ask why.
The Bach fugue seemed so pretty in the morning's beams
cast surreally, I thought, through the stained-glass story
that itself seemed to have derived from ancient dreams
rekindled by the figures in all its glory.
Words can never tell us more than what it all seems
to be, in the nakedness of raw night's worry.
