Clouds shield the sun that shines with faint interest
On a confused March morning. “What is it today?”
“Spring or winter?” Earth asks. “Clouds, you know this
is up to you, not me, but I must grow hay.”
The same questions pass through my mind as I
Watch the sun push dimly against the clouds,
“We need rain, friend Sol. The fields are so dry.”
The clouds wrap old Sol in a shallow shroud.
Not much I can do talking to the sky,
Though I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, it won’t help.
“Make the best of it,” sings brother sparrow
From the birdbath I often forget to fill.
“It’s all just a matter of scale,” I think
unwinding the hose to give the birds a drink.

Another Shakespearean sonnet. I couldn’t find any inspiration in the cavernous vacuum of my post-migraine morning brain to use the RDP word of the day which is, uh, cavern. It’s a good word for a poem, but as is always the case, some days are better than others. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow.