Sonnet for the Beginning of a Volume of Poetry
by William Hoover
A poem is a butterfly of truth
Emerging from the chrysalis of thought,
And (as most things when in their pimpled youth)
Begins a worm, unnoticed and unsought,
Which thrives along the laborer’s dust-choked road
And eats those weeds that sprawl in any ditch.
To this rough start its future grace is owed—
Musical wings that glow with perfect pitch.
This book is but a case, these pages glass,
Where butterflies, caught by my net of ink,
Show to all traveling souls who chance to pass
Cool wings that charmed the hot fields where I think.
And though far more have fluttered through my brain,
These I have caught, and therefore they remain.
There being no law against it, William Hoover finds deep beauty and pleasure in both mathematics and poetry, chess and classics, Excel spreadsheets and clever advertisements, science and sunrises.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy