The Philosopher’s Quest - Sonnet 44

My craft is not a subject you can teach,

Nor is my heart a starched commodity

Stacked neatly on a shelf, an oddity

Within a mundane world within our reach;

It is not circumscribed upon a page

Trapped deep inside the ink from bleeding pen;

Nor is it limited to voice, to then

Distract in sound the soul beneath the sage;

No: something much more frightening is here,

And yet more comforting a spirit needs -

To plant a blooming flower in the weeds

And make it grow heads high for hungry deer

That, wandering the fields, will simply rest

And thus be satisfied on what is best.