SoC 3:1

A Sonnet To A Dead Judge

Afternoon passes by me
like a speeding car
and what is left
is a sensation
of stillness in a motion:
a paradox.
I sit on an old chair
by my pool
while the sun hides herself;
tall trees her veil
leafless curved branches
like beggars’ empty hands
pleading their lost case
to an empty chamber.