There’s something I would say, the gist of which,
Inchoate in my mind, is like an itch
That prompts my pen to scratch a word or two
Then make a line and then another few
Until my form’s filled out, the page is full,
A sonnet’s wrought and—lo!—it’s sensible.
“Now where did that come from?” I fondly ask,
Yet knowing where or why is not my task,
Which is but to sit still and listen well
To what my verse unfolding has to tell.
The mystery of this I must abide
While listening to what whisperings confide.
The sonnet that emerges at the last
Implies behind my mind lies something vast.