a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (41)

Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. Also, I should acknowledge that the formal aspect of this “Petrarchan sonnet” is liberally conceived so it’s unnecessary to alert me that at “Petrarchan sonnet” with 15 lines is like a quartet with 5 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.

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AMIDST the forest glade I pause with care
enwrapped in a mantle of the falling light
the scent of jasmine wafting in the night
and born on pinions wrought of summer air
each draught of incense speaks a silent prayer
as little birds that make their earnest flight
then unsuspected suddenly alight
and with their spontaneity repair
the rift wrought in our straying, wayward minds
which, exiled and estranged in time and space,
have sinned and left their childlikeness behind:
then blow, you winds, and glide about this place
proclaim that anyone who seeks shall find
and that he shall be received apace:
the one who knocks upon the door of grace