I will not reach my best before I die.
Perhaps upon my passing, I'll confer
A greater worth to all my pen supplied
And maybe one or two will be preferred
By readers who come after. But not yet--
Oh no, I've miles to go before I sleep.
Four hundred fifty years, and they'll forget
I ever lived, for poems may not keep.
But maybe one will turn up on a page
Folded in a journal, faded ink
And read by my descendants in an age
When such archaic words will make them think.
I'll raise a glass of tea to that and pray
That future daughters give their best this way.
postscript
Day 23, and part three of four sonnets in a series. In this you may notice my nod to Shakespeare's 450th birthday, as well as an idea or two from other famous poets. And some irony--that this is not my best work, but I titled it such anyway.