“A sonnet in the style of John Ashbury”

A marble evening trembles, blue with news  
Of someone speaking softly in the stair,  
And books lean inward—do they choose  
Their readers, or simply gather vacant air?  
The lamp’s bright halo lingers in a cup  
Half-filled with yesterday, a phantom trace.  
Outside, peculiar birds, not quite grown up,  
Tilt with the thaw—each flash, a clumsy grace.  
You mention gardens tumbling out of bounds,  
Tomatoes wild in an autumn drift,  
While light divides the kitchen into sounds—  
Glass, kettle hum, a sudden window shift.  
Yet all this furl and gentle afterglow  
Rests restless here, as far as we can know.

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