Sonnet 50 – From Where I Sit by Dennis Allen Lange

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From where I sit, the wind is getting shrill.
But that is strange, because I look outside
And see the cedars sitting somewhat still,
Their quiet demeanor almost dignified.

Ah! there it is again, a whistle, howl.
My glance is quick; perhaps the cedars move,
But not so much to justify the growl.
The sight I see does not the noise prove.

I put the two together, keep my eyes
Upon the cedar tops thrust up like spears.
A gust then flattens them, to my surprise,
While from the chimney, wind howls for my ears.

Our senses and good sources, hand in hand,
Or ear and eye, join so we understand.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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