
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 piano was my treasured gift.
An opulent bedroom presence
the last remains of my past,
my instrument of choice.
I played it daily
until the fire.
Then it was
my door
lock.

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.
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