I will still write poetry. But not, I think, every day.
Earth in its orbit, one more revolution --
another year out of our lives drifts away,
and the span we have left faces its diminution,
and me? I tried writing a poem every day.
Three hundred sixty-five pieces of poetry.
Some were all right, some were fair, some were bad.
Some showed too much, in their ways, showed more of me --
If you don't know which, I'll be grateful and glad.
There's no glory in it. I think I got better.
If I'd gotten worse -- well, who knows, who can say?
But I kept it up, clumsily, whether muse freed or fettered,
and now I have written a poem every day.