Sonnet, Unsent

I wrote the letter four times over, eachdraft calmer than the one that came before,until the anger, sanded to a speech,sounded like something you could not ignore.I did not send it. I have kept all four,folded in order, worst to nearly kind,a museum of the man I was beforeI taught my hands what patience meant to find.Some nights I take the first one out to read —the one with all the words I actually meant —and feel, for just a paragraph, freedof every quiet thing I since have bent.Then I refold it. Anger, given time,learns to prefer the softer, later rhyme.