Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
I say I will
But I do not do
You say you won’t
Your do becomes my don’t
At the end of November
As the light turns to fade
I think of you
I am so staid
In my little room
With table-lamp lit
I write these love words
I hope they fit
