To Write A Sonnet

Today's forecast hath brought words out to play;
they love to bask in pen and paper's shine,
though clouds of doubt do offer threat, delay
sweet rays illumining meter and rhyme.

But playing in the rain does best of all
rinse sun-baked dirt away from softest skin,
enrich sweet joy, befriend the darkest pall,
turn each season of mind into your kin.

Let sleep the bees of truth 'neath your bonnet,
prefer the song of birds that ever sing
the song truer than truth—that's your sonnet;
many cheeks and many ears may it sting.

(Don't fret should my advice for you fall flat—
'tis but a simple buzz beneath my hat.)