A little stale becomes my poetry
if I too often write that senses pale,
and how fatigue retards my energy:
a little stale.

It isn’t news that sinews start to fail
this many years beyond maturity.
There’s rarely fuel or wisdom mined from “ail.”

On foot today, I’m seeking no epiphany.
I hope to capture beauty on the trail,
and post it here, intending not to be
a little stale.