THE DAILY ROUND
My yearly crop of poetry is in,
All girded up in sheaves and neatly bound,
And now another cycle’s to begin
With verse to range from silly to profound.
It matters not what comes, so long as I
Arise before the dawn and sit me down
In readiness, pad on my lap, to try
Whatever comes to mind, a verb or noun,
A clause or phrase, the first hint of a notion
That then begins to form and run a course
That’s unpredictable once set in motion,
Arising from some dark, unfathomed source.
It matters not if what I make is great
Or small, so long as I participate.