First task of the morning, write a sonnet for the OctPoWriMo prompt.
I look out onto misted dripping trees,
And hear the fading voice of autumn sing,
Among the browning leaves piled by the breeze;
Is this the dream I hoped that time would bring?
These sodden fields where only pheasants call,
Their hoarse bird voices plaintive and forlorn,
Was this the dream, this bleak and foggy fall,
When gunshots break the peace of every dawn?
Dreams are formed from some deep-seated need,
A future shaped, a light that beckons on
To follow, though our lives change from that seed
Of first green youth, but now that youth is done,
I marvel still at beauty, every sound
Of nature, for here true heart’s ease is found.