Sonnet Two

My friend with an interest in wit and form
asked for a sonnet, a luscious lemon souffle,
fresh from the oven, wafting and warm,
made from scratch, bliss of any gourmet.

I tried blank verse, listening to Shakespeare,
reading his sonnets, studying his plays.
Every poem I wrote, antipodal of air,
fell with a thud, the egged dud of my day.

If practice makes perfect, my mode is repeat,
to write a sonnet as grand as a souffle,
fragile, light, tangy and sweet.
I'll write sonnets till they rise every day.

Shakespeare, I love him, he's one of the three,
I would invite to dinner from history.