A Southern Spring Sonnet

To continue the theme of poetry month that I started on Tuesday with a series of limericks (if you missed them, you can catch up here), I thought that I’d attempt a Shakespearean sonnet. It was a little more challenging with it’s iambic pentameter, which I’m quite sure I didn’t always hit the mark on because I still can’t get the sing-songy limericks out of my head. Plus there’s the very particular rhyme scheme. But, hey … for a quick workaday rhyme, I think it turned out pretty good. You be the judge. Here it is:

The yards and gardens are covered in blooms,
Our patio furniture with pollens.
The sneezing can even the dead exhume.
Though swole up eyes are blind to their coffins.

“Spring is so garish,” she said with a sniff.
“All pink and purple and yellow and green.
My Lord, it’s so tacky. Get you a whiff
Of those whore-y Bradford pears that we’ve seen.”

We pray for rain to fall and wash away
The hell-tide assault of scent and spore.
We pray to Jesus for that happy day
When spring has fin’ly sprung and is no more.

When azaleas like wet paper streamers
Mark summer’s coming to sniffly dreamers.