Thursday, January 20, 2011


As you perform the form a sonnet takes
And watch your lines roll out across the page
Eager to see the moves your mind-muse makes,
You find this form a playground not a cage.

It’s paradoxical that freedom comes
From such confinement and prescribed constraint,
That what’s so arbitrary often plumbs
New depths of mind discerning something faint—

A glimmer of a notion barely thought,
The shadow of an image fleeting past,
An element you didn’t know you sought
That at the start you never might forecast.

     And so you ride this form, this vehicle
     That proves at last a vatic oracle.