And still she sits in waiting,
Deep within her shell.
No point in contemplating,
As to when she might expel.
She’s not driven by a calendar,
Nor woken by the sun.
She’s not a starlit wanderer
On her monthly run.
No bolt of electricity
Will generate her storm.
Naked with simplicity
It’s so she finds her form.
. She’s the fickle child of a wondrous thought,
. She’s a child, a brain child, that won’t be caught.

© Tim Grace, April 2010

To the reader: There are so many aspects to life that just can’t be chased down or forced into submission. We gain nothing from bullying a butterfly. Simple pleasures are attracted to those who appreciate and nurture the quality of relationships. It’s through patience, not cajoling, that pleasures are expressed … good things come to those who wait.

To the poet: The rhythmic structure of this sonnet is more lyric than poetic. The line lengths are variable and do little to help the reader establish a comfortable meter. Nonetheless, it does move along in three blocks of four-lined stanzas. Each block of thought reads like a statement; but true to the theme of the poem, the statement fails to capture the essence of this illusive female form.

crisilis