The sonnets boil from my teeming brain
Condensing in a dew of poetry;
A cool day can devolve them into rain
That falls down on the page for all to see.
In hotter hours, they fly upward 'til
They form great cloudbanks in my higher mind,
Where they obscure the sunlight of my will,
Leaving my intentions undefined.
But on the balmy days when I am well,
Neither too warm nor yet too cold to write,
They irrigate the soil where they fell,
And, waking up after a dewy night,
I find a fertile growth within my heart
Ready to be tended by my art.
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