Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar
my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn
closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.
Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.