Every ten years I write one.

Sometimes playfully, like a crossword, antic —

Maybe this time the right touch, the light one.

I tried Optics — Oh, I thought I was the bright one!

Even brought up Spinoza — perhaps too pedantic —

Every ten years I write one.

Now, consciously fashioning lines, as might Donne —

Or Neruda, rather, someone romantic —

Maybe this time the right touch, the light one.

But she turns aside, my Heart’s-Delight One —

“Oh, wow, another villanelle,” she yawns, “Enchanting.”

Every ten years I write one.

Maybe Theology — a theme that will heighten

The tone a bit — something resonant, even tympanic —

Maybe this time the right touch, the light one.

Oh, where is that Muse? Did I fail to invite one?

Come, come, dear sprite, from o’er the Atlantic!

Every ten years I write one.

Maybe this time the right touch, the light one.