A hollow reed, I plucked and dipped in ink
To pen a po’m in sonnet form today.
Like Spencer, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Millay
They are; therefore, I am, I’d like to think.
Or am I just a fool upon a hill,
Who squanders time by minutes, then by hours
Babbling and strewing limericks like flowers
Purposelessly as April? Comes, she will.
I can’t, nor would I, even if I could
Presume to climb the heights of Bards like They.
My hillocks are my own to my dismay;
Inspired, yet, dare I climb, as dare I should.
I pray my poetry may, too, inspire
Posterity to climb, yet even higher.

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