Tumbling Twirled Tuesday, Wondering Where Wednesday Waned, Thursday Tidy Trembles, For Friday’s Faint Refrain,

Here follows a “Sonnet To A New Story,” itself in iambic pentameter, mixed at times, of fourteen lines, a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e, c-d-e, in rhyme, for you to hear what story will be posted here this Friday morning next. It is a puzzle to ponder and measure what be the metes and bounds in its text and state?

SONNET TO A NEW STORY

Wonder Longer And Wait, Friday Day Beat,

Not Now Or Long, To See What Is In Store.

One New Be Sure, Not Seen Or Writ Before,

To Precede Your Holiday Feast And Greet.

For You, Two New Pairs Fly And Bark Too Fleet.

That You May Wonder Certain Unsure More.

What Did Happen There, In That Snow By Shore?

Were I To Know And Tell, I Would Unseat,

The Sadness Long That Troubled One Lad’s Walk,

To Cause Another There To Rush And Reach,

To Try To Help But Fall And Break Beneath.

Were That Be There The End, To End The Talk?

Further, I Can Not Now Pretend At Speech.

You Must Wait Here, To See If There Be Grief.

That is the sonnet and on Friday morning this morrow’s morrow, perhaps the mystery there will be solved by thee, if you be here to see and read.

Have a fantastic day,

Grandpa Jim