Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 
one month since my last functioning poem.

I’ve written some allusions in random notebooks 
and used alliteration in Facebook replies, 
but I have barely crafted a verse 
or completed a sentence in weeks.

I read other poets and writers in hopes they’d 
trigger inspiration before they flew to other fields.
But the cardinals, sparrows and jays were only 
concerned about the seed I put out yesterday.

I felt the morning sun on the back of my head 
after I had my hair cut short. My first thought 
was winter took a wrong turn and dropped me off 
in spring. That wasn’t what the groundhogs forecast. 

One did, one didn’t, and one died before deciding. 
My winter haircut usually means six more weeks 
of frost and snow for my bare neck and balding head. 
People care more these days about mask mandates, 

border blockades, and Oscar snubs than they do 
about my omens and logic. And don’t get me started 
about the ancient celebration of Lupercalia and 
how Hallmark turned it into a romantic ATM.

Next time, I’ll use a notebook with larger pages 
so thoughts won’t break and drift away. I’ll have a pen 
handy when the sun reflects into my room, before 
the earth’s angle shifts and unplugs the light.

For this, and all the poems 
of my past life, I am sorry.