Better Graces

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Better Graces

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #37

Oh am but a puddle left by a passing storm
Of nature and fate and Thy unfathomable purpose,
I wither and fill by the changing climes
Infesting Thy globe that knows no calm.

A little of Thy sun at day I mirror,
The jealous clouds obscure Thy rare face,
At nights Thy spying moon on me doth gaze
With light so cold birthing a shadow and shudder.

Oh to be a lamp of humble wicked flame
Burning steady and unseen in Thy chamber,
Only a soul-eye to gaze at Thee in wonder
Is boon enough apportioned to my name.

My temerities are gone, the rebellions quelled,
I plead Thy better graces to not be withheld.