To forge a sonnet is an art supreme; It begs a certain clarity of thought To court a shy yet unrelenting theme And groom it in apparel that is brought By aptitude and skill with written word; To gaze into suspended space and time And trap a flight of fancy in a bird That preens its wings to alternating rhyme: Three quatrains, then a couplet at the end To tenderly and mercifully wean You from the shady branches that extend A dozen roses from the fertile green Imagination of a sonneteer, More captivating than the subject here.