July sonnets

One of my long-term projects this year is to write a sonnet every week. Each day, I write two lines in iambic pentameter (a total of 20 syllables). This feels quite doable each day, but over the long haul (I’ve been doing this since Jan 1, 2023) it adds up to a lot of sonnets! This year I’ve been experimenting a little more with doing multiple sonnets in a row on a theme. The past four have roughly been “July” – so here they are. No titles yet so I’ll just number them…

1.

An evening breeze, now stirring through the grass,
awakens in the shadows blinking light
of fireflies. The twilight’s hourglass
brings deeper purples where the lilies, bright,

say their goodbyes. The heat begins to ease.
The bullfrog in the pond begins to call.
Somewhere up in the whispering crowns of trees,
an owl flutters. Now July is all

a murmur of desire, like a dream,
as here we sit, just wondering what might be.
A glance, a thought, just passing, what might seem
to point toward something? Or perhaps we see

the moment go, just like a firefly,
ablaze, alight, then gone into the sky.

2.

The starting pitch is 1. Perhaps the heat
would wilt us, if we chose another spot,
but upper deck or not, here in this seat
a blissful bit of shade makes all less hot.

The boys of summer saunter down below —
a crack, a roar, a cheer, a wash of sound.
Above, a bird examines all the show,
then fleeing all the tumult on the ground,

flies in the rafters, slipping through the beams.
Perhaps his nest’s up in some shady nook?
I know that summer’s shorter than it seems.
I know that autumn’s lurking if you look

beyond the ball park wall. The city scene
is silent — from a distance, still serene.

3.

The surface is like glass — I see a cloud
go floating by me, swimming on this lake,
just like his friend above. A lily’s bowed,
because its bloom’s too large. Its petals shake.

One drifts into the water, falling by
a dragonfly, who veers off toward the trees.
A ripple stirs the stillness, but the sky
moves slowly as the willow oversees

my drifting in this boat. Midsummer’s thick
and heavy, this July’s so languid, heat
feels like a presence. If the second tick
I could forget them, silenced by the beat

of breathing, or perhaps in time my oar,
now half-neglected, resting on the floor.

4.

As night comes to the woods, the fireflies
are everywhere. I watch a spot of grass,
a patch now blooming lights. A blink — surprise.
Who knows where each will be? The shadows pass

beneath the trees. Now rustling in the leaves —
a rush of wings. What creature loves the dark?
It swoops up to the rooftop, one believes
it might feel magic in between, embark

upon its flight, as in the sky the moon
begins its journey too. I breathe in, deep,
aware that as the summer lingers, soon
all this will mottle at the edges. Keep

a watch for when the air turns. Here we lie
half-dreaming, in the evening’s lullaby.