At fourteen, I composed a clumsy sonnet:
“My Adolescence,” in as many lines.
I didn’t waste a lot of effort on it,
Starstruck by boyhood’s grandiose designs.
Dante had Beatrice, Petrarch his Laura,
Ambitious Spenser wooed his Faerie Queen;
Miltonic sonnets wore a ghostly aura,
Shakespeare laid bare what love’s betrayals mean.
Since I was never any good at math,
I missed the intricate geometry
That kept grand passions on their proper path;
The form’s true elegance eluded me.
These days, I see proportion in the rhyme
As in the greatest music, keeping time.