A Stick and a String
You know you’ll miss the shot you never took
So take the leap, the plunge toward the unknown
I thought that I could read you like a book
But words I couldn’t hear were stick and stone.
You’ve got to make your own stuff work, I said
This messy pile of taped together junk.
The more I look, the more I’ve found misread
By me, yours truly, this embittered chunk
Of fraying hopes left rusting on the vine.
You turned away—I didn’t take the shot.
The ledger, red and dripping, wasn’t mine
My debts to you were merely afterthought
So what’s the use of wond’ring where to go?
I’ll carry on—the one skill that I know.
Once again, I was challenged to write a sonnet. Because of who I am as a person, I wrote it about one Clint Barton, the Hawkguy we know and love.
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