2nd Sonnet To Christina Poem by James Mullaney

Now drink mead to Ceres' agronomy -
you've plowed a sage into a country rube;
his solemn pretense of autonomy
felled by your hook like a fat wet jujube.
So Ida squeezed ewe's milk again this May
when oxeye daisies drowsed between the briers,
and warblers tuned a rustic roundelay.
Our bodies shell because the ghost suspires.
Thunderous rains replenish tenderness
when urbane polish dazzles to a fault.
What makes wishes wine, Christina? This kiss...
...and pledges pure beneath the starry vault.
Pastures in the heart require a bumpkin -
their fruitage yields such a pretty pumpkin!