"sonnet37"

a climate with no seasons turns
yet always for the four it yearns.
the daily letters that were penned
with just one word in mind was when;
the when in distance moved to where
the false of letter did despair.
so close in word a falsehood built
remove the light, the flowers wilt.
if man does hunt a girl will know
though naught is clear if she does sow.
the pen does cry as ink's removed
as what was bound has been disproved;
what point is there when spring's begun
to move not into summer's sun?

`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
2jul09
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