Yet Enough
A sonnet is not much in little but
Enough in little. Cosmic, no, yet small
Is how the universe began. A hut
With kings’ and shepherds’ rhymes involves a sprawl.
The form explodes inside itself, its shell
The force of fusion, compact words contained.
The form is like a hot-tongued, squared up bell
That dares the galaxies to be constrained.
The lines do paced out struts as danseurs mean
To leap. A ballerina’s tiny turns
Are waiting for a lift, of red flames, clean.
A sonnet flares inside like coal-filled urns.
A sonnet is an egg by Fabergé
Packed full with pain from April, June and May.
~ Phillip Whidden
