This is my work, and if it seems to you
a slight thing, an unnecessary thing,
a nothing, this thing needed me to bring
it into being. Its readers may be few,
but this I did. My work. My work and wage.
My friend says, "No more sonnets. Turn your hand
to something other people want to read."
He thinks I care. He thinks I have some need
for strangers to read this and understand.
I like the sound words make upon the page.
My friend says, "No more sonnets. Write some prose."
The swallows have returned; the wattle, too.
Why we repeat these cycles, no one knows,
but purposefully, we do what we do.