I see much of myself in this poem Kate, for as I get older, more and more it seems I lose the passion to write poetry. Despite that fact, I have many starts waiting for a little hard work to truly and honestly flesh them out. I especially can relate to this stanza: Once long ago the words came so easily, It was as if each breath Brought something wonderful That must be saved, shared, Savored� Well done, and continued success with your own life's passions.

I think reluctance to write have visited all writers at some time or other for whatever reason, be it they feel they cannot tell the tale in their heart in a manner that suits them, or they simply cannot deal with the pain or joy related to such. For writing is surely exposing oneself to whatever rotten projectiles or bouquet of roses, they, ( whomever they are ) choose to toss or lay at your feet. nevertheless,. reluctance or not, writers are like that proverbial fruit tree whom it surely must pain not to share of its fruit. for what other purposes are fruit trees and writers but they give of their abundance, most abundantly, like you do Kate, most frequently.

How well I know that wasteland in which inspiration hides I know not where. Probably the dark spaces and corners and in the shadows hides the inspiration. Thanks, Kate.