Valley of Sonnets

Bruce Baker

Bending the wind, rushing past shapeless thoughts

Not yet scribed in mental scrolls, not yet dreams to

Linger. Not yet time to comfort lonely thoughts.

Not yet music to enchant the rapture or to dust a maidens

Bosom. Not yet planks to walk on, daring the sea too declare

Proclamation against tepid waters and wayward soil. Not yet

A conductors wand, no bassoon to rumble through breast plates

Giving rise to life a-flowing, smiles, relief, comforting thoughts

To get a soul through another rise of brilliant sun.

Not yet music.

A sculptors chisel plinkets and plumps, smikets and thumps,

Seeking more agreement of shapeless boundaries, not yet life

But seemingly worded beliefs from the tinkering of a guided hand,

A virgin one. To the trained eye, a menagerie of quarter notes emerge

Dashing across the valley, widening the streams, parting the clouds

Raining down on daffodils, droplets of water weighting down limp

Petals now joyful at the arrival of enchanted song

Tom toms resound in a valley not yet with foliage,

Devoid of reasons to knight a timeless warrior. Music plays on as

Silhouettes come alive, refuge to paisley souls posing as honorable

Men, loyal maidens in tow. Bands of shadows anchored to the soil

That bore them rise in defense, but concertos in E-major resound,

Warding off attempts to squelch songs of praise, no profit to clink

Giblets and goblets to. So goes the ballerinas' care not to awaken the

Convoy of a valley of trees and bushels of thoughts, now worthy

Of a sonnets rendering, of life now without chance,

Of music