THE SONNET

There’s magic in the very web of it,
This tissue woven of just fourteen lines,
Within whose borders sundry wonders fit
Accommodating infinite designs.

The glory, wonder, awe and mystery
Of the vast universe itself plays out
Within its microcosmic imagery
As it devises certitudes from doubt.

Somehow it weaves its way to clarity
While it reveals itself upon the page,
As, rhyme by rhyme, new meaning comes to be
Like incantations of a cunning mage

That spell out of thin air a spectacle
Which at its best will prove a miracle.

*