Sunday, August 9, 2015


                    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.