Weeding by Lamplight A Petrarchan Sonnet

"A dry soul is best."—Heraclitus

The light of day confounds along its path;

the humid air’s a torrent, too, of wet,

you might equate with sitting in a bath

—that is, almost as wet as wet can get.

What, though, might be the bone-dry aftermath

of stanzas done in dampness? Best forget.

Petrarch—back then—for certain would not fret

to see a scribbler soaking, in his debt!

The purpose of a poem is obscure.

It ought to puzzle you, if any good.

The maker in his garden’s just in sight,

wielding his long, forked rake to feed manure.

He would free finer flowers if he could,

weed to order, if needs be, by lamplight.

August 31, 2024