Sonnet: Grove Park

[Jackie]

Carrying my case, I enter by the back. The school
is condemned. A chipped door brick ensnares my skirt.
Shifting my load, I grip the downward rail
not to trip in the dark. I know the hallway by the glint
on paths in the floor, sculpted in concrete by years
of turning and scuffling. My teacher is at work in the classroom
muted by the smoked-glass door. I like to play
my viola here. No one is near to hear.
I see it so clearly from this bench in the shade. Grove Park
appeared when the school plowed under. In front of the knoll
where I once entered, two cottonwoods stand. Bike paths
twice the width of the hallways cross the grass.
I mourn not for performance or great renown,
but for treasured hours now lost below this ground.

[Antcliff]

Hi Jackie

I enjoyed this. At first I was sceptical about the ending...how could hours, even in a metaphorical/extended sense, be underground? It felt a bit liked a strained metaphor to fit the need for a rhyme. However, since I have spent quite a bit of time pondering the phrase, it must be engaging...so I have changed my mind.

But I do think that we can't mourn for great renown as such...it must be for the loss of it, or the loss of the possibility of gaining it.


Seth