isn't it funny how time slips away?
Although it's too late now for new resolutions,
I think I'll try writing a poem every day.
Three hundred sixty-five pieces of poetry,
free verse and limericks and naughty quatrains,
even some ballades, but never a sonnet --
against the iambic I struggle in vain.
Will I achieve glory, or drop this next Thursday?
The answer is murky, so no one can say.
But it's a new year and the Muse is upon me,
so I will try writing a poem every day.