I Come Empty Handed

For A.S. An Italian sonnet. This is a bright turn from the last sonnet I wrote, which was about death. How nice.

The entryway of your house invites me in with the breeze of lemon detergent. 
I am called towards the depths, there in your mansion on the mountain. 
Memories uncollected of the escaping wild which hides a fortune I cannot obtain.
The epic fireside musicals breathe tunes that never carry what we meant.

All I remember of your home on the hill are the tracable, tangible things.
I come empty handed, leaving with notes of love while my ring is on your finger.
Washing my clothes, I inhale the twlight smoke, which is reliable to linger.
And I hold tight to what I can grasp, for fear of what an untouchable future brings

Reviews

[Salvatore Buttaci]

Congratulations on winning the Write-Me-a-Sonnet Contest!

[Kara Emily Krantz]

this is quite lovely. a turn, but it still has a deep darkness to it.... a smokey fireplace feel. which i like. i like how it opens quite differently from that, but kind of moves slowly into that

"All I remember of your home on the hill are the tracable, tangible things"

love that line. a lot.

hugs

[Gregory Mark Connolly]

Hey, that sonnet flows really well. I'm no expert in poetry, so I can't figure out what makes that Italian. I'm half Italian, so I figure that I should be able to pick up on those things. You should tell me what exactly makes that Italian and not English or Russian or something of that sort. (That is, if there are other nationalities besides Italian that have sonnets.)

[James K. Blaylock]

i really got into reading your poem. keep up the great writes.

The epic fireside musicals breathe tunes that never carry what we meant