LADY ON THE WEB

Miss Underwood sent me this sonnet, in (what she knows of) Petrarchan form, which she wrote for the occasion of her birthday, today.

"A trifle grim, Miss U.," I observed.
"All too true, Miss G.," she replied. "All too true."

The flowering time being done, what's left is the stick
Of "character," in pathetically bold relief;
The wreath of temperament turned withered leaf,
Which flaps and rattles, lacking the wet quick;
And the white hair falling, falling, a sad snow,
Travesty of the lustrous dark which bloomed,
A girl's infinity, a wealth presumed
To flourish everlasting, never to know

Winter. But the closer we get to the timeless real,
The sharper the bite of the dwindling store
Of seasons. A single fruit, in an unknown hand,
Turns to be consumed on the year's wheel,
To be eaten down to the still, scraped core,
And the seeds flung, to reflesh the flat of the land.