When I consider the chronology
of this planet English speakers call “The Earth,”
I find that I am filled with hopeless mirth
and laugh and laugh, without apology.
First, there is the question of ontology:
What does it mean to be? Then, what of worth?
Evolution of love, death, thinking, birth. . .
I need an expert in cryptology.
Or maybe just an old storyteller,
someone to recall the ancient tales,
a weaver of myth, a mystery speller
holding our long history in her brain.
Beside the fire at night, she’d sing of rain
and lovers, trees in winter, crows and whales.
A sonnet exercise I wrote a year or so ago, just for fun.