"The poem resembles a bottle" [sonnet, semi-Petrarchan]
who could compel the mist to applaud the flowers?
I wouldn't suppose another perceives what penury
lately rims the brocaded yardage of swaddling hours
the poem resembles a bottle cast on the brine
containing the tale of a consciousness gone aground
one's private isle! green glass is washed supine
by currents whose key strange destiny may've found
the very form of the poem achieves the seal
to keep the text contained so when it's read
this opens the bottle if reading might reveal
what letter an islander stowed what has he said?
he broods at palmtrees and an old worsted keel
while God alone knows how an alien life he's led!
[This is my first contribution to the Caferati blog. I dub the form "semi-Peetrarchan" merely on account of its particular rhyme scheme (which affixes a Shakespearean head on a Petrarchan tail, so to speak)]