For fear that I perhaps have lost my touch
I write this sonnet just to throw away.
I’ve written many, like it very much,
But here of late I’ve had far less to say.
The muse has come and gone or, so it seems,
I pray she makes a U-turn and comes back.
Oh, Muse Mundane! Come give me sonnet dreams,
Or, short of that, forgive me as I hack
Together words whose virtue is just rhyme,
An essay that has rhyme, but no reason.
Although I used to write them all the time,
Walking in the rain through this dry season.
Hello, old friend, I’ve missed your 14 lines.
I’ve naught to serve, but please, come in and dine.
Rev. Joel Tucker's Blog 