Too young, too old, no age will suit the one
whose lack of satisfaction is within.
Too light, too dark, no feature will be spun
to other than not quite enough to win.


Too short, too tall, no height will fit desire
whose definition is not founded sure.
Too thin, too thick, no type will like inspire
in one who thinks perfection is the cure.

Too weak, too strong, no grasp will calm unsafe
whose doubts reflect their litanies of life.
Too soft, too loud, no sound will comfort waif
for whom the past foreshadows coming strife.

Remembered words are often not the same
as what was said yet much our future claim.


~Too little and too much, a second sonnet for Edith Briggs, by Robert S 

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