A Sonnet On Not Writing Much

Less time have I spent with this notebook, whilst
still writing (Here ‘n there…) for bigger things
that, though they grow ‘n do reveal themselves,
shall not be read nor spread their metred wings
until Time tells my as-yet future self
that, being done at last, they may fly free.
Th’meantime’s not born much of my shorter else,
with dog ‘n children – neither mine – to see;
to care for. These routines are new; are great –
both in their bearing ‘n their fulfilment.
And as I find among them café space,
I see that neither muse nor pen is spent.
For, though I’ve not been productive as such,
I’ve writ this sonnet on not writing much!

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