The Bard on Fogiedom

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73 is about fogiedom.  You know, “That time of year thou mayst in me behold / When yellow leaves, or none or few do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold.”  My boughs shake.  In fact I just received a fleece top from Land’s End.  It was deep discounted on the website as a leftover from the winter season, and there was only one choice of color.  I got it for next fall, but I have it on because it’s chilly and damp with a fresh breeze off the water.

The last lines of the sonnet are, “This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, / To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”  Apparently the poet is speaking to a friend who will miss him when he goes into the “black night.” 

I thought of those lines because Lawrence Estes has died.  We were inseparable throughout our childhood and teenage years so that my mother thought of him as one of her own children.  Besides mourning his passing, I stare aghast into the black night. 

Right now the words speak to me not as the bard meant them.  Fog was blowing on the beach this morning, and a light surf was coming in.  Birds cried as they cruised the moving air, and in the gray sea there were glints of silver.  I looked away from the night and toward the world. It’s that which I love well for I must leave it ere long.