Each morning I invoke the Sonnet Trance,
That mood or mode in which new verses turn,
An attitude adopted to enhance
What seeming randomness would have me learn.
How can it be, a mindless list of rhymes
Should generate at last coherent thought,
As if a random clattering of chimes
Composed a score of music you had sought?
But sound and sense strangely collaborate
As each delineated verse rolls out
In ways I never might anticipate,
And yet as naturally as blossoms sprout.
Mysteriously, there’s sense within the sound,
And each verse seems to know where it is bound.