You do not tell a snake which way to twist
Its limb nor cats where they can or can’t walk.
And the same holds true for the sonnet, its
Thoughts are its own. Through me you hear it talk
Say what it wants. I’m the dumb man who shows
His hands for meaning. What are words? They’re signs
That tell you it is dawn, but the dawn goes
Happily on its own. Words stay and mine
Are no different. I like my words, don’t get me
Wrong. I work hard, and am the one who strives
For you, more important than me, to read
What is not me but meant to be. What I’ve
Left you, reader, are these words I’m writing
That will tell you when I’m gone it’s morning.