I was recently asked if I write sonnets about subjects other than love and romance and sex and erotica.
Well, certainly, I like to write sonnets about anything.
So, in honor of spring:
forsythia A common shrub -- this bush -- most times is quite forgettable, a bunch of sticks with leaves, possessing nothing to commend its sight or causes us to believe that it deceives by hiding underlying wondrousness. And so it has been used to mark a line between two lands, or fill some space, or dress a fence with greenery -- we could malign its role if not for what it does in spring. For then, before the heat of summer takes control, the vernal equinox will bring its petals forth, so lemon-bright it makes a goldfinch pale! For days it glorifies the hedge, until it fades into disguise.