The earliest sonnets that I wove at ten
Were stretched upon a little metal frame
Held in my lap, and not with pad and pen,
But colorful elastic loops—a game.
My sonnet writing now is much the same:
The verticals are alternate iambs,
Since pattern and not chaos is my aim;
The laterals end in zingers and shazams,
A parti-colored flock of ewes and rams.
Once lifted from the frame with edges laced,
More epigrams than In Memoriams,
They frequently reveal more haste than taste.
These latter ones I’ve woven out of thoughts;
The early ones I made to handle pots.
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