My first and only sonnet.

Sorrow

Old sorrows waken at new sorrow’s birth.
Forgotten losses stir their weary heads,
As disenchantments sigh and shift their girth.
Each death emerges from its settled bed.

They come from hiding places new and old,
Returning to the mind and heart…and throat,
As if by some familiar cry they’re called
And, unexplained, the tears on which they float.

With tenderness, surrounding heart’s new wound,
They lean to lend strange comfort now and sing.
As through the rain is heard their mournful tune-
A gift that only sorrows known can bring.

They gather up the babe and take her home,
A silent landscape back to which they roam.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Michael Smith