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.
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