A sonnet comes out better if you walk.
At least, it always has seemed so to me.
The movement and the rhythm of the tread
Gives life to words, and changes “breath” to “be.”
A dancer may speak sonnets with her feet,
A singer with their rests and changing tones,
But always will a sonnet need a beat
Or will the words be still as silent stones.
The movement need not be that you provide:
It can be wind or water or moonshine
Or leaves of trailing trees outside
The windows you are wont to claim for thine.
To give life to a work starts with a hiss
Of indrawn breath, a heartbeat, and a kiss.

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