Stillbirth of a Sonnet

There have been moments in my life enjoyed more for the forest than the fallen leaves. White drops of ink that improbably bleed right off their journal to rupture the void no one had known existed ‘til destroyed by the birth of a daughter her father needs in such a way that such a need exceeds all fathomable measurements employed. The type of moment that tames tedium and makes it bearable: a mismatched sock in hand to the sock on foot - every time worth a grin when the laundry stacks up grim; the type I once stood on admiring my flock ‘til grey wolves in weeds taught my daughters rhyme.