Eighth Sonnet

And this morning you gave me a lion,
stood there, hands in your pockets, smiling.
Thanks, thank you, your pride I can rely on.
The cub’s curiosity whiskers king.
Frailty, a génération perdue, found
again by those who painted out of turn,
and blamed the broken predators of sound.
What good are dreams if not to build a burn
that in our heart grows, and we fall to tears
on Christmas day, sit in the sun, alone
and dream more about what it was we hear
and wonder blessed to have the gift atone?
…and from his watchful eye, I’ve learned to breathe
smiling as you, curious to believe.

12/25/09