I found myself as desolate as straw
when I put up the latest poem today.
Bereft I felt, as if there were a law
proscribing empty pages. I’ve a way
to reinvigorate my mouth and hand,
so I can fill my belly and my screen.
I exercise a therapy I’ve planned –
I write a poem and eat a nectarine.

The meter dances and the rhyme intones.
The food’s intense in flavor, firm in feel.
The energy begins in tongue and bones
and radiates to fingertips. My deal
is simple – write before I lose my nerve –
and now I have a sonnet in reserve.