A Sonnet
And now I want you to see the root. Allow yourself to hold it in careful regard. Instants before prying it free from the earth, no crow cries for what you behold: the maimed, indifferent
Hand grasps at the base, seeking purity that youthful babe aghast, always grasped and rarely held for much longer than furies frightful hour, and once such times elapsed
All the groping of the world takes measure and pain to endure it, but in vain, no treasure
Samuel Maurice (c) October 2019















