Tuesday, May 24, 2016


                    A sonnet comes through serendipity:
                    There’s no way to foretell where it may go
                    With rhyme and meter’s strict exigency

                    As it reveals new matter row by row.
                    At best you have a notion as your guide
                    That sets you off into a Wandering Wood:
                    From there on it’s a wild and whirling ride
                    Finding a course that may be understood
                    And, better yet, seems destined to be found,
                    As if it were intended all along,
                    Its sense being aptly wedded to its sound,
                    A sonnet being in fact a “little song.”
                        How it comes into being is Provident:
                        The best of which are surely Heaven sent.