Easter morning bubbles gently in the sky,
sun yolk swaddled in a muslin chalazae.
Cheeks billowy as clouds, the newborn cries,
ripe from his mother’s fresh bouquet.
The yellowest tinge of hair upon chin;
The weight of something new upon my chest.
His almond eyes and tulip-petal skin.
The waves that come in heightening crests.
Resurrection of joy, each oval wet;
I haven’t gotten over the bliss yet.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own sonnet. Incorporate tradition as much or as little as you like – while keeping in general to the theme of “love.” A tall order, a sonnet on Easter Sunday. A happy verse, so anyways, here is my muse.






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