query

why don't i write a poem about that
you make it seem as if the art's a breeze
that in a few minutes between some chat
i can pump out a sonnet with great ease
the thing has to express a thought that's clear
it can't just say thunder in a giant's rage
nor flash like lightning in the heavy air
the word has to mean something on the page
what i do matters even if it's just for me
the passion and the hope come from inside
i can be open and wide as the very sea
or insignificantly small just here for the ride
still the sonnet comes from what i think and feel
it's my description of this turning wheel