For you I write this hundredth sonnet now
My friend who's reading this somewhere today
A message from behind my furrowed brow
Through time and space to you from yesterday.
And everyone who ever raised a pen
And wrote ten syllables on fourteen lines
From Shakespeare to the meekest of all men
That wrestled words from heads like they were mines.
One thousand lines and then four hundred more
And fourteen thousand syllables all gone
But every day I revel in my chore
And love to think the thoughts I think upon.
From August till this cold November's day
A path of sonnets helped me on my way.
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