A sonnet keeps a train of thought on track,
And once it builds a hardy head of steam
And images come billowing from its stack,
Then lines emerge in a continuous stream.
Each quatrain’s freighted with a novel thought
Driving the poem farther down the line
Toward a terminus still vaguely sought
That on arrival manifests design.
The route is fixed, as if by destiny,
And it’s the duty of the sonneteer
To stay on track toward discovery
Until that fated destination’s clear.
A sonnet’s less invented than revealed
Along a track, not in an open field.