A Sonnet for Myself

Abigail Rose blooms as she strides along-

Her efflorescence is in lush language.

When she spake, emeralds fall from her tongue-

King Midas admires the foliage.

Abigail Rose has thorns on ever' limb.

She is wild, elegant, musical.

Pricks fingers whilst playing the violin

viva la flora, soul’s convivial

A fairy, a muse, a siren, or may-

bee’s honeycomb color hair. A thinker.

By night, ponders and sips the milky way

Moonlit iris reflects, alabaster

Tis a sonnet for Abigail Rose’s-

future. A lone a rose blooms. A romance.