Sonnet 3

A grape, tender tendrils of vine design,
Amongst a garden of mere feathered leaves.
None more distinct, more fair, more perfect fine,
Curling past my bitter void to retrieve,
My sense of peace, thence none, now more vivid,
To simply produce a grin, grinning smile.
And without my conscious knowing I bid
Fortnight again to walk an endless mile.
Sudden stops I require make but return,
To that amazing, wowâ€¦ aband all noise,
All recollection, all sense to relearn,
That violet grace, that poignance, that poise,
That smile, your eyes, those seeds of calm remind,
How wonderful to fall when I am blind.

Notes

I wrote this awhile ago while sitting in my car waiting to pick up my friend right around Ackerman Turnaround at UCLA. It was a nice temperate Spring afternoon and I was waiting for quite awhile, so I grabbed a Washington Mutual deposit envelope I keep stocked in my door panel and wrote away. And either the sky had a purply hue, or I had just eaten some grapes before jumping in the car, I forget.

I was playing with sentence breaks to give more impact to certain portions of the work, while trying to keep the flow, and I think I was fairly successful. And if you say "grin" aloud, it sort of produces a "grinning smile" on your face, hence that awkward line.

— Huy on April 23rd, 2006