Sonnet

Outside the evening cloudy sky
is rolling toward the mountain glens.
The winter sun has said goodnight,
and lambent talk inside the Den.

Inside the Den where chewy lines
are cut and sniffed, and cali weed
Is bought and sold and rolled into a spliff
beneath a skirt of urban vines.

I miss the summer days when lightrays
devoted themselves to Earth and Men.
None was too dark to partake
in festivities at 4:20 and 10.

Roll under storm unto thyself.
Bring the ocean current to forest shelf.