In a draft, it all begins in a draft;
Soft wind is picking up in the white sails,
Who hears the message running in the gales?
Alone on the ocean, lost on a raft,
Who’d, for a sole win, bear a thousand fails?
But thus sparks the genesis of the craft,
There, as a helmsman on the paper aft,
The poet is walking grand celestial trails…
An incomplete sonnet.