Sonnet (and then Recollection) Therapy

In my first literature class we learned about those who used poetry as a coping mechanism.
In my last literature class we learned that Strong Poets are influenced, kind of, but that they deny their precursor's direct association with their work.
Therefore, I'm going to attempt to assume myself a Strong poet and compose a sonnet for my own therapeutic purposes, "basing" it loosely on Wallace Stevens' last poem from Ideas of Order.
"Autumn Refrain"...

The skreak and skritter of evening gone
And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,
The sorrows of sun, too, gone . . . the moon and moon,
The yellow moon of words about the nightingale
In measureless measures, not a bird for me
But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air
I have never–shall never hear. And yet beneath

The stillness of everything gone, and being still,
Being and sitting still, something resides,
Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,
And grates these evasions of the nightingale
Though I have never–shall never hear that bird.
And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,
The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.

.........
"For Grammie"
An Indiana migrant whom has gone,
Left for the great palace beyond the sun.
Having passed from here, there she will be soon.
Presently her crescent ship has set sail,
Sojourning into the eternal sea.
Upon the moon I see her floating there,
Content. As Grandfar says, 'Not good, but well.
Spencer, be always as Grammie--Stilwell.'
'Yessir,' I'll assert when gitt'n to reply,
While my heart jumps as beats from a drum.
Sadly I'm sorry knowing not her tale
From the rote, except from what I've heard
Dad tell at home. Thousands of lengths was his
Trade placed, till now, as Eleanor's northbound.

Times are aging as autumn leaves changing,
But where else in the world would I want
To be? None. I'll see the south in a month
Where the family tree has one less leaf,
But no less soul. In death freedom's reigning.

Backstory:
Yesterday was Thursday. I woke up around eleven and went to get a bagel and a coffee which I would bring to Econ101. On my walk I ran into Rio. We chatted for a minute and then I split for class. In class I wrote a page and a half of poetry instead of listening and learning about Surplus, Substitute, and Complementary products in the market. Although I did notice that our professor, a gal in her mid-twenties who is teaching her first class, did a better job keeping the class interested and attentive allowing me to do my thing sitting on the top row in the large Leon Johnson lecture hall. Thereafter I got some reading done for my next class, Adolescent Literature, in the Wilson commons but Felicia told me I was reading the wrong article. Oops, I thought, but she lent me her print-off so I could knock out a few pages, which I did. In class I sat next to Rio, discussed the assigned article with Jill sitting the next row up, and then met Emmie sitting next to Jill who introduced herself, coincidentally knowing Isabel from work at Murdoch's. After class I walked off campus and went back to an empty apartment where I had thirty minutes to kill before my shift starts. I got a glass of water, checked the computer, put on my work attire, thought about what homework needed doing, and turned on the car. In no time I rolled into the employee parking lot. The building's big bay door was open, and I could hear my boss. It turns out there was a monthly store meeting, but I couldn't make it on time anyways cause I had class. No biggie. Phyllis discussed the agenda, involving a typical reiteration of "employee roles" "store integrity" "power delegation" etc. and too-oft repeated retail business standards in lieu of mandatory corporate followup. Then I get a call from my dad. It's 5:15, and I tell him I'll call back after seven. Then he said in an unusually solemn tone, "Um okay, yeah sorry call me back, it's kind of important." I said okay and hung up. Something was wrong. I could only think of one possibilty, why that thing I thought of I couldn't tell you, but I hoped to God it wouldn't be. I couldn't concentrate in the meeting so I excused myself and called back about five minutes later. "Hey bud, do you have a few minutes to talk?" I said yes, and he told me the news. Grandma Eleanor, Grammie is what we called her, had passed away earlier that afternoon. I knew it, and I hate saying it now. I sat down on my car's back bumper and cried a little. I think my dad did too, and still I've never seen him cry. I said I'm sorry to him and that I'd call him after I got off. Love you. Click. I sat still off the back bumper for a few minutes to collect myself before rejoining the meeting and went inside. I didn't say a damn thing to anyone about it at work. Death is something I never have dealt with. I probably seemed cranky, and I was becoming more so because of other things at work which hadn't gotten done. Won't get into that. I left on my delivery by six sharp, and I had to bring my boss home because she left her keys in Glenn's car when they had went to look at a house earlier that day. It was a warm day, but the sun was beginning to go down and we were en route to Belgrade. It was quiet, possibly awkward but I didn't care, until we got on the interstate and after several minutes of few-word exchanges we struck up a conversation about this and that from my former boss Taylor to my major and her family, business as usual along with life in general. It was real nice. Calming. In passing she expressed interest in recruiting me for a managerial posistion for Sherwin Williams, but I didn't express much interest back. Maybe I should have, but that wasn't something I wanted on my mind. I kept wanting to say something about Grammie but I couldn't. How do you just bring up something like that from out of the nowhere? That subject wouldn't arise. Phyllis was her usual, sarcastic, foul mouthed self. I thought about when I moved to Alaska and I would drive around and cruise the town to burn off steam. The driver's seat is where I find stress relief. Soon enough we got to Phyllis's place and she picked up her keys, and then we made three paint deliveries between Belgrade and Bozeman. We even passed Murdoch's statewide distribution warehouse. I find that funny. We made it back to Sherwin just past seven. Sam was counting tills and Lea was mopping. I went back to silent mode, although my phone vibrated. My cousin Beth texted me, "Thinking about u. loving u." She knew too, being kin of Aunt Stephanie my dad's sister. Fifteen minutes later I left work and called my dad again. We talked small, about mom driving to El Paso and school and then briefly about the funeral. I asked if we would come to Texas for it? Unlikely. Dad told me that when his grandfather died Grammie was the only person who went to the funeral in Florida. Everyone lived in Texas back then. We didn't talk about much more. Talk to you tomorrow. Click. I called Beth after. She lives in Durango, Colorado, where she graduated college. We haven't seen each other in five and half years, but we've talked and we talked about everything from the future and now to life and death, and when we did talk about Grammie I would begin to say something which quickly became uttered with the all-too-repeated words "I don't know" because I don't; because what is there to know about death? There's nothing, because we only know what's here, but the side of life. Beth and I talked for forty minutes, and after we...Click. I thought of how I could express myself as a strong writer, in and of the creation you've seen above. There's only one thing, that I would explicitly steal, maybe two things if you include the parts about autumn, Stevens' poem, rhyming my lines' final words with Stevens' end words, that's all because mine is writ in rough [iambic?] pentameter, but understand this I deny that he had any influence on me. My influence is Eleanor Stilwell, whom I dearly thank and love and may she, yes you Grammie, rest in peace.