I know that some rebuke me for the mold
In which I cast my verse. It is too old
A pattern that I use, or so I'm told.
By focusing on rhythm and on rhyme,
I write lines that bespeak not my own time;
Instead, I other writers seek to mime
And so diminish those things I would say.
Were they worth the time, a newer way
To put my point across, one for today
Instead of worn-out forms would I employ.
To move away from pattern, I, not coy,
Would press ahead far rather than deploy
A sonnet form. But such a thought believes
The past is nothing more than fallen leaves.