A poem's words are particles in flight
Dispersed as waves across my mental space
Interpreted by individual rite
I can but guess at both their pace and place.
To pin them down may sacrifice the drift
To let them fly may foil their depth of spike
Their fluid form provides a soothing gift
I mould them to my own capricious like.
But oft' I feel my path has run askew
As misalign is add to misalign
From idiosyncratic poet's view
Decision then to push on or resign.
But if I'm held in maze by poet's art
By doggedness I swear I'll reach it's heart.
Diane Hine
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-poetry/
