Sentiero (“The Path” by Pierre-Auguste Renoir), Sonnet #601

No path is inarticulate,

But none reaches a point.

I walk when the day is late

And with silent steps anoint

The dusky air with thought —

Not mine, only that sought

Among the clustered leaves and vine,

Wind-rustled, indecipherable design.

I meet you coming the other way,

With black suit, cane, and bowler hat.

You bow, but have nothing to say,

Because you are neither this nor that.

I walk right through you and smile

At the path beckoning mile upon mile.

Ruth and Christopher Guerin (November 27, 1977), Sonnet #214

Still my love, of 41 years, still mine,
You are both a truth and beauty of time.
A blizzard, as this picture was taken,
Danced up the town, as if to awaken
With skeins and wild cascades of wind and white
A lazy prematurely sleeping night,
As you, in our marrying, ignited
A new soul in me, the old one blighted.
After we kissed and I stepped on the glass,
Our eyes met and said our own private mass.
The beauty in this picture speaks to me
Every day, with word, gesture, mystery
Unspoken, not unheard. I answer, so:
We still love. That is all we need to know.

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