For Uncle Ron, recovering from open-heart surgery, a fan of sonnets.
Somewhere the chairs sit empty and alone,
Remembering the warmth of daily buttocks.
The echoes of the lectures died and gone
Betoken times of respite sans the flummox
Caused by thoughts abirth with pace of rabbits,
A number grim it blossoms into pressure.
But husbandry of thoughts, the goal of abbots:
Van Vliet, de Visser, Smith, Van Raalte, Visscher.
Somewhere a boiler furnace makes its case
By preaching hydraulic harangues at tables.
Lest such a groan take hold in soulish space
A blessed week of pause in restful stables.
Somewhere in study bright over epistles:
A smile and beer-inducéd sloppy whistles.