By Bud Koenemund
For Lindsay
Sonneteers are oft’ tempted to compare
Mortal muses with the Sun; an equation
Flawed, for beauty suffers in that glare;
Hindered both by glint, and prose overdone.
But, I, Shakespeare’s garish fire will shun;
Likening your loveliness to the Moon –
Luminous and gentle; a perfection
Inspiring invention; lunacy
Somehow granting focus to intellect;
Transforming this poet’s admiration,
As moonlight changes dark night; bedecking
All in rare magic – fueling creation.
When day comes,
I’ll carry you everywhere;
Though I can’t
see the Moon, you’re always there.
