Sonnet 8

You have a marvelous facility
Where I with words lyric spirit ration
You take formless mass of clay and fashion
Art born to serve for our utility
I like to think myself of hotter blood
Capable of rendering a song
In language that will never linger long
While you are making love to life with mud
Each vessel that you make contains a void
Wherein a bit of both of us is stored
Likewise into each sonnet I have poured
The essence of the moments we've enjoyed
But words seem such a temporal display
Compared to timeless poems made in clay.