To say that all is finished, all is spent,
means nothing in the greater scheme of things.
For in that scheme there is but one intent:
“waste nothing” – as from compost new life springs.
What of that old house that the ground recalls?
What of that empire in its fallen state?
What of that fashion that today appals?
What of good reason wasted in debate?
All of these might be finished, done with use,
stripped of cause, drained of substance; as conceived
they might be buried dead or dangling loose;
but as time shall choose – they shall be retrieved.
. Beyond finished there lies a new frontier,
. furnished in the garb of a golden year.
© Tim Grace, 14 March 2012
To the reader: Mistakenly, finished can be considered a terminal point of arrival. A statement of completion that declares an ending. In reality, nothing ends its course; nothing is divorced from what’s to come. Next, is the consequence of an expanding universe; until Time contracts there shall always be a new beginning… a next time to come. And so, in conclusion, consider this sum … there’ll always be “one more sonnet” to come.
To the poet: Almost done. I know what it’s like to write 154 sonnets; one more and I’ve achieved my goal; one more sonnet and I’m finished? The challenge was self-imposed and given a few rules the disciplined process was fairly painless. The two-year rule was gruelling but necessary. The minimal use of “like” as a tool for metaphor kept me anchored to a direct narrative. The sonnet is an endlessly adaptable form both generous and forgiving. The sonnet (and my readers) suffered some mutilation along the way but with considerable credit stayed the course.