My life story is littered with phases I have no means of understanding. The most recent one was the first year of the pandemic, during which I wrote 90 poems and a dozen love songs. I am passing the poems on to you, my readers, at the rate of one a week, but in a little less than two years I will run out, and there are no new ones coming into the other end of the pipeline. I am enormously proud of my collaboration with the anonymous musician who set my love song lyrics to music, but there’s nothing new happening there either.
Perhaps my muse got burned out and is taking a sabbatical. Or, perhaps, I had 68 years of backed-up poetry and love songs in my system, and the drain has been cleared out. Or maybe I am getting old. I wish I knew which it was.