A nonet starts with nine syllables.

The next line; it goes down to eight.

The longer the nonet goes,

the harder to make work.

Like life, I suppose.

It starts with birth

ends with death.

Make it

work.

The wind rustles through the

cypress trees, while the sparrows

perch like Christmas ornaments

and harmonize in the waning light.

It’s chilly, but I sit and shiver,

grateful for the symphony,

the resin lion in plain sight.

I feel so much, yet it’s never enough.

I wonder what they’re doing

and wait.

One treasured

photo of

wisping hair

on feathered lashes,

a curly cowlick,

and skin so fair.

And those

mischievous eyes

so diligently

fixed on the prize.

Soon she will eat cake.