Sonnet At Sunset

You only hear the lion not the loon;
Does he know about the sun-bathed circles,
The hues of the lake, its twilight twinkles?
Yes, he roars, but can he devour the moon?
I brave my dry spell, my longest monsoon;
Can’t you see my ageing brow, my wrinkles,
My darkened skin, my hands numb to tickles?
Yet, I still can snare butterflies at noon.
I still see youth on the sudden blossom,
On the new leaf still fragrant, still pale green,
I see it on the mother’s wet bosom,
On the baby’s still dreaming face, still clean,
In the wisdom of the blind, the lonesome,
Who still has stories about the unseen.

A nice mournful ode to the aging flame. You aptly describe the outlook of a winsome lover. Even when the beauty is obscured by common, dreary sights, we can leap outward with our imagination. I enjoyed your, scintillating poem. I think that "aging" is misspelled. Also, you need the plural verb "have" in the last line.

Thanks for reading. Ageing can also be spelled as aging. "the blind, the lonesome" is only one--the I in the poem. I just put comma after the lonesome. thank you.

A wonderful sonnet:

"My darkened skin, my hands numb to tickles?
Yet, I still can snare butterflies at noon."

:)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor