It seems I always start out with the best intentions. Maybe we all do.  But somehow I wake up one day, and find that I just couldn’t keep them.  In this particular instance, I just couldn’t write a poem every day for a month.  I tell myself I don’t have that many in me. But then I’ll be driving and three will come to mind and I think, I’ll write about that when I get home.  And I step in the door and the dog distracts me and there is always a chore to be done and oh I forgot to respond to that text and what am I doing for dinner and then I just can’t seem to recall what I was going to write about and I am chagrined to have done that again.  Even just there as I was writing about being chagrined I thought about signing up for yoga tomorrow.  Which would take me to my phone and away from this poem.  A poem about how I just can’t get myself to write poems.   

Tomorrow is a new day.  I wish me good luck.