ROUTINES

                    There’s little that’s haphazard in my day:
                    It’s patterned tightly, like this sonnet’s form,
                    Proceeding in a regimented way,
                    All things accommodating to a norm.

                    And yet in this, a paradox is found
                    That by this seeming onerous constraint
                    I am more liberated than I’m bound
                    Can I but show the patience of a saint.

                   For form inspires versatility
                   And leads me where I wouldn’t think to go,
                   Discovering what waits in latency,
                   Making as yet un-thought ideas flow,

                      Which now this sonnet newly demonstrates
                      While this phenomenon it contemplates.

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