Sonetto

by Robert Mezey

Jupiter, and a crescent moon,
And a blue that could not be
More blue without being black -
The colour of mortality,
To me. The low moan
Of an owl calling for its mate,
And nothing calling back;
Just crickets ratcheting.
There's nothing I can do but sing
How much I miss my friend,
How achingly, how long . . .
But quietly: it's late,
A few stars glisten,
Jupiter, Venus . . . True,
It's not much of a song,
Croaked out into evening wind,
But it is a song. It's what I do,
Should anyone care to listen.