I used to make at least three poems a week,
on alternating days, on foot or train.
For thirteen years I gamboled on a streak
of rhyme composing stressful rhythms rain
or sun, in fact on weather often writ,
in fourteen lines, five-footed, sprung to air,
till I became expert with requisite
facility as natural as my hair.

Less often now I sing that formal way.
I liked and left too many tunes to tell
true love from momentary amity.
Inclined to dote on story now, the day
can be imagined when my love will swell
to fill a book that doesn’t tire me.