my thoughts thump in meter of the sonnet.
I know the origin of the malaise:
yon book, the name John M. Ford upon it.
The title, Heat of Fusion, failed to warn;
as did its presence on the SF shelf;
Ford's verse on Making Light was what I'd known -
forgetting that brought doom upon myself.
It isn't fatal; truth, it's almost fun.
The catch? His colors sparkle, mine are dun.
