I may be running out of things to say.
I thought as much two years ago but then,
composing twice a week and Saturday,
I kept producing rhythm with my pen.

I aim to entertain and maybe teach,
describing observations as I age,
perhaps providing useful views to each
who values rhyme and meter on the page.

But just as time moves faster every year
(a day’s a month to toddlers, but it seems
as fleet as hummingbirds to disappear
for me), epiphany so seldom beams,
I’m learning ever rarer, ever less,
and may be muting into quietness.