What if we write sonnets directly into cloud
On the day of unseasonal rain, before winter.
We bring up ten syllables to line in fourteen.
We rain sonnets directly on a city’s sorrows
Sorrows that dry up with the funeral flowers
And suns everywhere rise usual on Mondays.
We do one sonnet per each dead by default.
Not to forget wet babies lying dead on beach.
For baby faces on beach a quatrain may do.