How I Wish

A Sonnet

How I wish I could write like Dickinson,
passing the time with butterflies and bees
walking alone and communing with trees,
but here I am in counseling again.
My pen won’t start, the battery is dead,
and pictures are better than all haiku,
being is better than writing to you,
how could mere words make up all we have read?
Yet time after time, I sit with my rhymes,
and my mem’ry flows back to all our fun.
Our talking betwixt us was never done,
so emerges from the creative slime
words that are tall, fighting, and ever mean
and won’t stop chatting like they are fourteen.