I seem to have been stuck on sonnets
As I write where the bluebonnets
Grow on limestone hills of oak
And cedar. I have borne the yoke
Of rhyming many five-foot lines
Of iambs, embedding in them signs
That I have some deeper meaning--
Or, at least, cane make the seeming
Of doing so for a short while.
I have added to the pile
Of such poems grown o'er the years--
Hopefully, I've not caused tears.