EACH MORN

                  Our “nutties,” a.k.a. our backyard squirrels,
                  Await me every morn when I cast out
                  Their dole of peanuts, while our canine girls
                  Chase after them, putting them all to rout.

                  That ruckus done, they come back in for treats
                  Of Greenie nubs, then I sit down to write
                  While counting out my lines in iamb beats
                  In hope of finding pleasure and insight.

                  I never know where any poem will go
                  And what delight I’m likely to discover
                  As I compose my lines row after row,
                  Each rhyme word seeking for its phonic brother.

                       Most typically, as now, a sonnet comes,
                       Which sometimes sings or merely, as here, hums.

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