We feast on color, ravenous for red,
devouring violet, savoring sky blue;
we swim through fields where buttercups are bred,
awash in waves of grass and dirt and dew.
Inhaling trills that flutter from the throats
of robins, we join in the wild gavotte
that breezes blow, and bask in sunny notes
of bagatelles the winter ear forgot.
Indulging in a pagan’s wanton passion,
our games undimmed by caution or by shade,
we try to prove, in humble human fashion,
our fitness for the glittering parade—
and neither doubt nor reason can infect
the holy foolishness we resurrect.
Editor’s Note: Sonnets are one of the most widely written forms of verse, but few attain the natural grace of this month’s offering. The rhyme is effortless, but never cliché (gavotte/forgot).