“How do I love thee?”
Let me count the days.

Time must have meant something different to Browning—
mayhap to each Victorian—
though more so to an eldest of 12,
too old for the last,
too much for the first.

She was after all writing sonnets
two hundred years too late.

I sometimes wonder if the same could be said of me?

Writing sonnets,
worshiping queens,
and wax-sealing letters
years and years
“too late.”

And yet
each day becomes a lifetime,
till each year is a millenia,

and “too late” becomes an endless future,
rather than a weighted past.

“How do I love thee?”
Let me count the days.

Too few for some.
Too many for others.

Too early for propriety.
Too late for any other way.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s