My soul’s in a vacuum in a quiet place,
In a garden unknown in a state of grace,
At the bottom of a hill too steep to climb,
In search of a sonnet not written for a time.
The skies are filled with vibrating words,
Of the universe divided into rhythmic thirds,
Where it opens up and sings in different tongues,
Of love and poetry and the sound of poetic drums.
Sonnets are written when the mind is in motion,
The heart still enflamed love’s secret potion.
Sonnet engines boil up the surging blood,
Racing to the mind with words in the flood.