11-05-2015, 03:58 AM
Haiku turned sonnet. Been playing with this for awhile and haven't got it quite right. Still editing but would appreciate some thoughts. Thanks.
November Sun - first edit (thepoorfortune, dukealien, alstontowers)
Here, where the calendar begins to burn
and jilted green, broken-hearted, bleeds out,
it's fair to doubt that spring will ever turn
a leaf so lovely as these strewn about.
They bend their backs to bow to her, and she,
as if aloof, will every time retreat
too south to hang a hope upon a tree;
too south to feel her faint but steady beat.
But now November, where a change of wind
gives warm reprieve from the chilling distance—
she proudly beams as though she'd never sinned
and returns with such a sweet persistence,
to boldly appeal for another chance—
We cannot make winter of such romance.
November Sun - original
Here, where the calendar begins to burn
and jilted green, broken-hearted, bleeds out,
it's fair to doubt that spring will ever turn
a leaf so lovely as these strewn about.
They bend their backs to bow to her, and she,
as if aloof, will every time retreat
too south to hang a hope upon a tree;
too south to feel her faint but steady beat.
But now November, where a change of wind
gives warm reprieve from the chill of distance—
she proudly beams like she had never sinned
and returns with such a sweet persistence,
to warmly appeal for another chance—
We cannot make winter of such romance.
November Sun - first edit (thepoorfortune, dukealien, alstontowers)
Here, where the calendar begins to burn
and jilted green, broken-hearted, bleeds out,
it's fair to doubt that spring will ever turn
a leaf so lovely as these strewn about.
They bend their backs to bow to her, and she,
as if aloof, will every time retreat
too south to hang a hope upon a tree;
too south to feel her faint but steady beat.
But now November, where a change of wind
gives warm reprieve from the chilling distance—
she proudly beams as though she'd never sinned
and returns with such a sweet persistence,
to boldly appeal for another chance—
We cannot make winter of such romance.
November Sun - original
Here, where the calendar begins to burn
and jilted green, broken-hearted, bleeds out,
it's fair to doubt that spring will ever turn
a leaf so lovely as these strewn about.
They bend their backs to bow to her, and she,
as if aloof, will every time retreat
too south to hang a hope upon a tree;
too south to feel her faint but steady beat.
But now November, where a change of wind
gives warm reprieve from the chill of distance—
she proudly beams like she had never sinned
and returns with such a sweet persistence,
to warmly appeal for another chance—
We cannot make winter of such romance.