Stone Walls (Sonnet)

The sky's the tint of mourning dove and stone
walls. It's a dreamy haze, head in the clouds,
gray, neutral canvas backdrop paints my own
world the way I want. I can live aloud

or silent; find my light in things I've known.
Walls are made for climbing. Transcend avowed
limits in the now, no need to postpone
pleasure. Passions, wonderment, joy's allowed.

The peeling bark on blood-twig tree, lacy
lichen climbing to the tips of fing'ry
branches budding, reaching, future tracing.
Dogwood's old, but readies for the ling'ring

spring blooms, dreams of flowers, still life, water-
color skies, immortal imprimatur.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


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