At end of week, the mania asserts
itself again, till she’s compelled to glean
the world of words. She casts about; she flirts
with phrases till conceit emerges clean
enough to press its form upon the page.
And then she works with it and lets it flow
or whispers it upon her quiet stage,
until it dwindles or begins to glow.
And so the sonnets seep and spring from her,
the words as often generating theme
as following ideas that move and stir
the maker who’s a fool for self-esteem,
the jester in the palace of her brain
who juggles to suggest and entertain.