Spring Sonnet, with my sister’s favorite bit of Deborah
The way I see it, every season comes through
With a blessing—winter: dazzle; summer: evening;
Autumn: cold; and this particular spring
It’s got to be you, monotonous cuckoo
Or whatever you are, blasting that major third
Like a downbeat for the music of the spheres.
And who’s to say it isn’t, that the stars
And planets aren’t guided by a bird?
Your voice certainly seems to carry far
Enough, its two persistent notes so pure
They must keep the air’s orchestra in tune.
Who cares if they’re the same again and again?
I’ll stop waiting for that new, exquisite song.
I’ve got two notes; even I will sing.