My poet switch has gone awry;
I want to write, so I don’t know why.
In sit in the chill this Sunday morn,
my thoughts warm but I’m torn.
I’d rather not force the words to go;
I prefer a natural flow.
Love abounds and all is well.
My brain’s working, as far as I can tell.
My darling sleeps whilst I scribble.
But today she’ll wake to only dribble.
Maybe it’s just this change in time.
And tomorrow I’ll return to standard rhyme.