De Stijl

The sonnet is as beautiful a sight

as a Mondrian composition, all

red and blue and yellow and black and white

life, so carefully designed, will not fall,

standing upright like a coffee table

under thick square beams of solid sunlight,

each careful line is perfectly stable

and each rectangle is perfectly right,

the shape defining its own existence,

the bright contrast defining the black night

and the trees are scratches in the distance

their branches made of shadows, dark but slight,

and why do I like the way the leaves fall

when nature doesn’t look like this at all?