There once was a woman of age

Who struggled to honor a page

With some nourishing words

Ones that sang, flew like birds,

But alas! She was never a sage.

(And such hopes are so often a cage.)


Plus it’s winter, it’s cold and it’s dark,

And her mind must be locked into “Park,”

For when she tried sharing

She ended up staring

So her writing was way off the mark.

(It did not have true meat or real spark.)


Yet she still has a child’s sense of fun

And some playtime she seldom will shun,

So she’ll pen a wee ditty

That she hopes may be witty,

that might bring out a glimmer of sun.

(Just one ray, and she’ll feel that she’s done.)


If you read this and find it quite thin,

If it don’t make you chuckle or grin,

She is sorry to bore

She will write nothing more

You can toss this one right in the bin.

(She is sorry to add to life’s din.)


I hope your mind is doing fine these days; and if not, I guess you know now you are not alone.  

Have you found ways to play this month? I’d love to hear.