A Poem

I have been going through boxes, shelves, and drawers trying to clear things out for a yard sale next Saturday (come buy our stuff!) and in anticipation of moving (whenever that happens).  Today I found a sheet of paper containing notes from, I think, a literary theory class I took during college.  I have been saving this piece of paper for over a decade because on it is written my favorite sonnet, in addition to three days worth of incomprehensible scribblings about discourse, signifiers, rhetoric, and some pithy remarks about poetry by John Ciardi who I would say I have never heard of except that there is his name written in my handwriting.  The poem was written by Frank Sidgwick and is non-traditional as far as sonnets go.  Here it is in it's entirety because, as you know, a sonnet is only fourteen lines, so it is not very long.  This will allow me to throw away this piece of paper, thus lightening my packing load and ridding my brain of this obviously useless bit of note taking.  (I wonder if this piece of paper ever did me any good.)

An Aeronaut to His Lady

I
Through
Blue
Sky
Fly
To
You.
Why?
Sweet
Love,
Feet
Move
So
Slow. 

         --Frank Sidgwick