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Sonnets How can a lover know his love is true?
Look down, my harried soul, and see at last
the time for drifting wanderlust is through;
with luck, the time for doubts of life has passed.
Such firm denouncement, yet I must contend
that this beleaguered life must yet begin;
all things that come before these days but lend
appreciation when the end comes in.
I know, though roads, such analogues, are gone
and yet go on, time's instants wane these days -
the pointless thought - conclusion - holds upon
some certainly uncertain ways and waves.
And yet each word I write in circumstance
has tightened seeming strands of happy chance.
