A part of every day just writing: The sky is gray and raindrops hang; How is a life like this exciting? Oh wait, a bird unseen just sang. Unfinished tasks remain regretted; So forests' moods persist, abetted. And still a thought will come along: No fish will come; no time is wrong. Despairing then, perhaps I wondered... Preparing rows of trees or words On paper or on wings of birds- Exactly ten times, by a hundred - Momentous thoughts and aimless streams Suspend what's real. Behold the dreams.
– a sonnet in iambic pentameter.
