The First Sonnet Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

The First Sonnet

She is from France, there are roses in her hair.
She leans calm, pristine, against the wall of the church,
Beneath soft, white willows and chestnut colored birch.
Her lips glisten in the sun, russet, warm and fair.

She arrived from stony chambers, over the sea,
Where she was raised a princess in her father's court,
Who taught her reverence from hardship and majesty.
She is angelic in her ways, a dreamy sort.

And when the sky turns sad, gleaming with gray and blue,
She is clad in a pea coat, lost in reverie.
And she turns her sable head, graceful towards me.
(The stars sob with light, tender, filled with rue.)
And she alights like a ghost from the marble divan,
To walk upon the fields, so hopeful, old and wan.