I’ve run through my poetry outburst. I am now seldom producing new poems. Was it a phase I was going through? A Covid hobby? Most likely, it was 68 years of backed-up inspiration, like George Harrison’s first couple of albums after the Beatles broke up. Eventually, you use up all your seed corn and have to start new production at a (likely) slower pace. Perhaps my muse will come roaring back. Or, perhaps, I have thought of every possible way for me to express my love for Vicki and my joy in my new mindful life of gratitude. Every day no longer brings new snippets of inspiration. At the start of this project, I felt almost frantic with inspiration, filling my iphone with notes for new poems, with couplets and rhymes. Now, it’s just filled with shopping lists and the names of films I want to see. I suspect I will return to my half-century habit of plodding along in prose.