[I have always found a sonnet to be one of the most difficult poems to create.  I was quite dissatisfied with this one, but I include it because it's a recent work and because I have nothing better to fill in as an example of this form.  But I feel compelled to include enough text so that a reader can see where I was trying to go. The poem just didn't make it there on its own.

As I prepared to write this poem, it occurred to me that no one writes poetry to November. September or October, sure. And the crisp minimalism of December's black-on-white, or the red-on-white of Christmas. But November? Like writing an ode to an empty party hall, or a loaf of bread just molding, or the second year after retirement. Too far from life to be exhilarating, too far from death to be morbidly fascinating. Perhaps November is nature's late middle age, putting on the last fat, quietly fearing the starvation that may await, but still too early to really know. In winter I find nature stripped to an elegant simplicity of line and shade. Spring dresses coyly, summer boldly, autumn outlandishly. But in November aging nature sags naked before a mirror. Where is the poetry in that?

As I thought about Thanksgiving, the image that kept coming back to me was a frozen stubbled field under an unyielding sky. The field had enjoyed spring's sweet warming rays, had felt the joy and mystery of quickening seed. It had grown tall and proud and beautiful under August's benevolent sun, and had reached glorious maturity in amber September. And then (from its point of view) the hand that had nourished it turned mysteriously malevolent. Its glorious sheaves are ripped away, its children seed kidnapped. The field is left at last, stripped and churned, to face winter's pitiless cold. How bereft, how betrayed the land must feel if it does not understand! And yet this process is the harvest; without the gathering the field would not have been able to fulfill the measure of its creation. Joy is not in avoidance of pain, but in transcendent understanding of pain's ultimate meaning. This was my musing on 'harvest home' that season. The field can feel joy and hope only if it trusts the farmer; if it does then what happened was no disaster, but the careful gathering and joyful appreciating of the field's best efforts. And the farmer will see that the field is properly prepared to greet spring again. Indeed, being staked out naked is actually an important part of that preparation!

Layered atop that were two deaths close enough to feel, but far enough away to leave some perspective. A sister-in-law's mother died, a beloved grandmother finally returning to her husband after 14 years of separation. Another sister-in-law's younger brother died at age 34. So I was musing about harvesting souls, and about counting the harvest of a life's work. While at one of the funerals I met my newest great-niece, the daughter of a beloved niece that has triumphed over significant health problems. And her daughter is exquisite. I really wanted to say something about joy being the fruit of filling the measure of creation, and about my thankfulness at the chance to breathe in and out and witness the spinning earth. But I think I missed it.

Anyway, this is the best I was able to do. I think I'll stick with lighthearted next time, and steer clear of this form!]