Good Sir

A poem about writing poetry.

Would that my hand not cringe
and skulk away from you,
as the sweet bite of snowless air
falls from the Heavens' gray frowns.

But to be so gallant as to say --
nay -- to feel for thee what others yet do
would strip me of my jester's frock
and place me beside the likes of William.

Alas, is it the leaves crawling on the grass
that keeps me from my heart's mistress?
Or perhaps the blood, like ice, coursing throughout?
And I blush as a forest nymph before a stunning MacBeth.

Would that he, o good sir, deliver me
with tidings of hope to seize the day.
And would that my spirit not be swayed
by the very sonnets I seek to conceive.