There’s little that’s haphazard in my day:
It’s patterned tightly, like this sonnet’s form,
Proceeding in a regimented way,
All things accommodating to a norm.
And yet in this, a paradox is found
That by this seeming onerous constraint
I am more liberated than I’m bound
Can I but show the patience of a saint.
For form inspires versatility
And leads me where I wouldn’t think to go,
Discovering what waits in latency,
Making as yet un-thought ideas flow,
Which now this sonnet newly demonstrates
While this phenomenon it contemplates.